Don't Ever Play with Guns
by Ho-sama
Summary: 1940s prison AU. A WWII veteran known as Dean Winchester is locked away for a horrific crime. Extreme physical and emotional suffering beset him in prison and only his fellow inmates, Gabriel and Castiel, can comfort him. The mysterious Castiel, in particular, becomes important to Dean. Dean/Castiel. [WIP]
1. Chapter 1

******Title: **Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 1******  
Beta:** Bread_and_Butterflies**  
****Rating:** NC-17  
**Characters/Pairings:** Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, no pairing yet.  
**Spoilers:** None. This is an AU, but character names from every season will appear.  
**Warnings:** Strong language, angst, violence, ethnic slurs, sexual assault/abuse, discussion of murder, allusions to domestic violence and physical and sexual abuse  
**Summary:** A WWII veteran known as Dean Winchester is locked away for a horrific crime. Extreme physical and emotional suffering beset him in prison and only his fellow inmates, Gabriel and Castiel, can comfort him. The mysterious Castiel, in particular, becomes important to Dean.

**A/N:** This story takes place in the 1940s as WWII wages on. This story is inspired primarily by _Shawshank Redemption_ and will draw from it, but it's a separate thing and will end very differently. I could never, never, never, EVER say I'm even remotely close to being a good enough writer to write something as amazing as my favorite movie… so let's get that out of the way. Ethnic slurs, sexist, and homophobic language may appear throughout this fic for historical accuracy and obviously don't reflect my views. 1940s society was not very PC, so I am warning you now!

I just thought of Dean in prison and I made this really depressing, dark, and violent thing here. Be very mindful of the warnings. Also, look out for many different SPN characters. They will turn up like Waldos, in various forms. Also, this story will probably have some Dean/Cas in it, but I haven't decided what to do entirely.

P.S. – Gabriel~! I've never written him before and I'm glad to be able to use him. I'm sorry if I am unable to do him justice.

Finally, I would like to thank the kind-hearted Bread_and_Butterflies for offering her beta-ing services to me! Thank you! :D

Okay, read on!

* * *

"What do you think, brother? Which one's it going to be?"

Castiel took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a long smoky ribbon, "You know I don't like this game, Gabriel."

"That's what you always say, but you do always play," Gabriel winked at the man to his side. They were standing among a mass of men clad in gray, watching an influx of men emerge from a bus. The men filed out of the bus like ants, captivating the attention of every inmate that had already been serving time. Castiel's somber blue eyes roamed over every new man until they caught on a tallish man with lightly colored hair.

"That one," Castiel said, "The pretty one."

"Are you serious? That's your guess? You're telling me you're picking the fella with the face of a stone-cold killer that's got 'hardened vet' written all over him? You've got to play to win, amigo," Gabriel groaned. They were making bets on who would be the first of the new blood to cry that night. Gabriel had picked up this game from the former kingpin and he now organized all the wagers.

"That's my choice," Castiel nodded. "If he's even half aware of how beautiful he is, he'll be the first to cry…. because he knows he will suffer the most."

"Well, I'm picking the fat one. Just look! He's already nearly blubbering. Child molester if I ever saw one," Gabriel grinned and took Castiel's bet. The other men around the pair were also placing their bets and discreetly handing items to Gabriel.

Castiel returned his attention to the cigarette in his mouth and the soldier boy with the clear, sharp eyes. He looked so young and Castiel thought he saw freckles on his face in the distance when he passed. Castiel wondered what the other man had done to find himself in a prison populated by murderers, thieves, addicts, and rapists. Something about the green-eyed newcomer made him unlike anyone else Castiel had come to know. Perhaps that was why Castiel selected him. The new inmate wasn't just beautiful, but he also looked stalwart and out of place like a righteous man descending into a den of wolves. Although Castiel thought he certainly looked like he had killed some people in his life, he couldn't sense any evil in him and that made him suspect that he could break. The bleakness of prison and all its horrors would destroy that gorgeous man.

Gabriel distracted Castiel by swiping his cigarette and taking a drag for himself. Gabriel didn't like to smoke, so he was smoking just for the sake of pestering Castiel. Gabriel was a relatively short man with pale skin, chestnut brown hair, and a mischievous smirk of a smile. He was known for being crafty and for having the ability to get a convict any kind of contraband he might desire. His usefulness and his power for bribery gained him an elite, almost godlike status among the men. Being Gabriel's best friend came with many perks, not limited to cigarettes. Castiel looked wounded and frowned at the smaller man as the cancer meant for his body entered Gabriel's lungs instead.

"Relax. You know I always get you more," Gabriel replied before blowing a perfect ring into the air. Castiel watched it in awe.

"How do you do that?"

"Magic," Gabriel answered, wagging his eyebrows.

* * *

"Welcome to Curtanica Correctional Penitentiary, Mr. Winchester. My name is Zachariah Spencer and I will be your warden." The words that came from the mouth of the balding, aging man sitting across from Dean sounded pleasant to the ears. In spite of this, Zachariah's face was unable to conceal the disdain with which the man regarded Dean. When Dean said nothing, Warden Zachariah Spencer became irked. He gestured to the two guards at either of Dean's sides. "These fine gentlemen are Uriel Leroy and Sam Andréal. We call Sam here 'Andréal' or 'Andy' because we have another Sam that's been here longer than he has. Uriel and Andréal will help accommodate you."

At this, Dean regarded the man named Uriel. He was an enormous black man with a body like an ancient tree and a content, albeit twisted, smile. The man identified as Sam Andréal could not be more to the other extreme. Andréal was a lily-skinned youth that could hardly be called a man. He was delicately built and stood at attention with an observable uncertainty. While Uriel radiated confidence and strength, Andréal glowed with an innate kindness Dean surmised would be scarce at his new home. Dean couldn't resist making a comment. "You hire kids, Zach?"

"He's new," Zachariah responded bluntly. The disrespect Dean showed pushed every single one of the warden's buttons. "And that's Mr. Spencer, or Warden, to you."

Dean glared at the warden. He was every drill sergeant, every boss, and every teacher Dean had ever hated. "Yes, sir, Warden Zach, sir."

Uriel's fist connected with the side of Dean's face so quickly the Winchester was left seeing stars. "Apologies. Uriel has a temper," Zachariah stated without a hint of regret in his voice. "I looked over your case, Mr. Winchester."

Dean froze and avoiding looking into the warden's icy blue eyes.

"Awful, bad business. I know you are unfamiliar with the notions of respect and common decency, but I will extend all the hospitality within my power to allow you to serve your two life sentences with dignity." The warden stood and went to collect something. He approached Dean, regarding him with a snaky smile. "I have seen hundreds of men enter and leave this institution – some for the better, some in coffins. I have hope for you yet. The greatest gift I will ever be able to give to you is this, the Word of God."

When the warden placed the Bible in Dean's hands, the Winchester reacted as if he'd been handed a container of dismembered body parts. He felt nauseated being in the presence of the warden, especially while holding a book of lies. "I don't want this," Dean said. "Thanks, but no thanks, Warden."

"An atheist. I'm not surprised," Zachariah waved his hand and Uriel lifted Dean to his feet. Andréal was holding Dean's new garb and he collected the Bible when Dean let it drop to the floor. The warden got the last word. "I pray that even your corrupt, wicked soul may be healed here. I pray, Mr. Winchester, that you may learn to accept the Lord as your savior and repent for your sins. Take him away."

Uriel carted Dean off and, by the grace of God, Dean managed to suppress his urge to tell Zachariah to go fuck himself. Dean was stripped of everything that made him a free man. Uriel took pleasure in shoving him along and hosing him down roughly. "Not such a lady killer now!" Uriel howled and chuckled. "Water's cold, get used to it."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted in response. When Dean was clean, he was dressed in the same gray garb of incarceration as all the men that had watched him climb off the bus. The boy guard placed the Bible in Dean's hands.

"Please take it…" Andréal pleaded, knowing that Dean would most likely need it. Shrugging, Dean took the Bible, figuring it might make for good toilet paper if he ever ran out.

* * *

Dinner was served in the mess hall and Dean sat down in a spot where he saw the fewest men gathered. He desired to be alone with his thoughts, but soon realized that would be impossible. As he suffered through his first mouthful of discolored sludge, a tray clattered down in front of him and a hand was extended to him. "Hey, pal. I'm Gabriel. What's your name?"

Dean stared at the hand offered to him and refused to take it. As Gabriel slowly pulled his hand away, he stared at Dean until Dean gave in. He grumbled unwillingly, "Dean Winchester."

To his chagrin, another man sat beside Gabriel. Dean regarded him coolly and noted that he had a disheveled head of thick dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. He was unshaven and a surprising vibe of gentleness accompanied the moroseness he embodied. Having companions had only one positive effect. Observing Castiel and Gabriel helped keep Dean's mind off the running mess of so-called food he was consuming in quick mouthfuls to avoiding thinking about the taste.

"This here's Castiel," Gabriel beamed and gave the scruffy man a pat on the back. "And the guy sitting right next to you is Death."

"W-What?" Dean dropped his spoon and turned to look to his side. He was startled when he caught sight of an elderly man with black hair who was wearing a dour expression. Dean wondered how long the man had been sitting there without him noticing. Now that Dean's eyes were on him, he saw that the man was imposing in every possible sense. His face was familiar from grainy black and gray photographs in the newspapers. Dean's eyes went wide. "Wait. You're not _the_ Death. The Death-Death… from Crowley's mob? That Death? You got caught? Again?"

"It must have happened while you were off at war," Gabriel grinned, trying to get information from Dean. Death was as infamous and as feared as his name suggested. There was a web of myths surrounding him. Two convicts dropped dead the day Death was brought to Curtanica, leading some men to believe that he was death incarnate. They said he could kill a man with a single touch. All the inmates parted from Death's path wherever he walked and they avoided looking directly into his eyes. Only Dean could have been stupid enough to sit right next to Death.

"Mr. Winchester, eat. Your slop is getting cold," Death said in an unaffected tone. When Death told you to eat, you ate.

Gabriel watched with no small amount of amusement as Dean tried not to tremble as he shoveled unpalatable gruel into his mouth. He doubted Dean had expected to find himself in the company of a nationally feared syndicate hitman on his first day. "So, tell us," Gabriel pried, "Army, Navy, or Air force?"

Dean blinked up at Gabriel, "Army."

Castiel kept quiet, but listened and watched Dean intently. He wondered if he'd been fighting the Germans or the Japanese because he had obviously been to war. Castiel picked at his food like a bird while Gabriel and Dean continued their conversation. As though he had read Castiel's mind, Gabriel asked, "Krauts or Japs?"

"Krauts," Dean responded and his face became hard as stone. He had no plans of making friends on the inside and he thought Gabriel was an annoying opportunist. Dean didn't think Gabriel was talking to him out of the goodness of his heart or because he was looking for new pals.

"When'd you enlist? Did you sign up after Pearl Harbor?"

"No," Dean frowned, getting more irritated by the second.

"Ah, must come from a family of military men," Gabriel answered. "Father? Brother?"

"Both," Dean said. "Dad was a marine. My brother and I signed up together, not that it's any of your damn business."

"Whoa, just tryin' to make conversation here. Thanks for your service, buddy," Gabriel said with a salute and stole Castiel's roll from his plate. The blue-eyed man didn't mind. Dean narrowed his eyes at Gabriel and got up to leave. After he was gone, Gabriel peered over at Castiel, "Wow, touchy. Maybe you were right about him."

* * *

Night was sluggish in coming, but it eventually came. Dean was assigned a cell alone and he was locked away for the night much earlier than he was used to going to bed. When the bars clanged in his face, he began to grind his teeth together. This wasn't how he was meant to live. Yet, when Dean settled down into his bed quietly, he considered the fact that he probably deserved every bit of pain and isolation. He stared at the wall, examining every crevice until his cell became a solemn work of art. He was so drawn into the wall he could see minute specks of dust collecting on the plaster in the dim moonlight. Dean rested without moving or sleeping for hours.

He only took a reprieve from his silent brooding to chuck his Bible in the direction of the toilet. Whatever Dean was feeling, he did not allow himself to shed a single tear. Gabriel won the prison-wide bet, as he usually did. However, Castiel's other prediction about Dean was correct.

The very next day, Dean found himself becoming popular for all the wrong reasons. He'd caught the eye of Kristoffer Alastair, a man known and feared for his cruelty. He was tall and past middle-aged, but full of vicious vigor. Alastair was one of the few known serial killers of the times, who delighted in torturing and keeping his victims alive for as long as possible. He was America's Jack the Ripper. He'd been a butcher by trade and had an unconventional knowledge human anatomy that he had memorized with sick detail. Alastair was the worst imaginable combination of intelligence and heartlessness. When he saw something beautiful, he desired nothing more than to dissect it into its parts. Alastair hadn't seen a man as beautiful as Dean in a long while.

Alastair's power also derived from his minions that were never far behind. Miggs, a lanky, dark-eyed, sardonic blond, was a man that had been convicted for plowing down a family on a drunken joyride. Under Alastair's tutelage, Miggs had become exponentially more brutal. Alastair was also always in the company of a man known only as 'Ruby.' Ruby was sly and as handsome as he was callous. He was a tan, black-haired jewel thief and bank robber that never thought twice about spraying bullets at the people that got in the way of what he wanted. He didn't take kindly to being locked away and was more than glad to torture his fellow inmates with Alastair.

On Dean's second day in prison, he was taken by surprise by Miggs and Ruby and hidden away in a place where Alastair knew they would not be seen or bothered. "Welcome to your new home," Alastair gestured to the dark, damp location. His voice was soft, musical, and foreboding. "Lovely, isn't it?"

Dean knew where this was going. War-hero and tough guy, he fought like a lion, but could only best one or two of them at once. With Ruby threatening to break his neck and Miggs too eager to bend his arms the wrong way, there wasn't much Dean could do. Alastair gently touched his face because sometimes the worst forms of torture were the soft, unwelcome kinds. Dean reacted just as Alastair wished – with disgust.

"Dean Winchester, I'm Alastair. Pleasure to meet you. You've already met Miggs and Ruby," He grinned and tried to force Dean's mouth open. "You and I are going to become very close… I can tell."

As Alastair admired his lips and teeth, Dean made a horrible sound of protest and growled, "If you even _dare_, I swear to God, I will bite down _hard_ if it's the last thing I ever do."

"Come on, Dean," Alastair replied, "There is no God here." The three men may have left Dean's mouth alone that day, but their actions were no less merciless. Hell on earth visited Dean in Alastair's form, leaving behind a human that was bleeding and broken.

* * *

The trio of ruthless devils visited Dean as often as they could and only sometimes was Dean strong enough, smart enough, or lucky enough to escape their atrocious whims. On the days when he was physically unharmed, Dean still haunted the jailhouse like a shadow of his former self. He spoke even less than he had before and no longer had a desire to eat. Dean forced himself to eat anyway, assuming that if he was well fed he would have better chances of defending himself. For weeks and then months, Dean was made only of cuts, bruises, and sore flesh. His duty of washing hundreds of trays, pots, and pans each day aggravated his injuries like pouring salt on a wound. At times, he thought he would be blinded by pain, fear, or both.

On occasions when he was unable to perform his duties, he was sent to the infirmary. Dean came to know Uriel's unkind countenance very well and came to find it devastating in its indifference. The doctor, Frank Devereaux, was sharp-tongued and cantankerous, but he worried for Dean in the acerbic way only he could. The Winchester knew Dr. Devereaux expressed his concerns to Uriel and probably others whenever Dean left his care. Everyone knew about Alastair and his gang. Yet, Dean was certain Uriel wouldn't bat an eye if one day he wandered into the infirmary, collapsed, and burst open at the seams.

Dean only found true sanctuary in the library. He spent as much time there as he could, trying to find some semblance of peace. The library was quiet and Dean thought it wasn't often used because it wasn't particularly well organized or stocked. The space for the library was larger than needed and full of desks and shelves. Dean sat there, sometimes with a book, staring out at nothing. The only other person that spent as much time in the library as Dean was the man that worked there. He would cast discreet glances at Dean and go about his work on organizing the labyrinth largely without being noticed.

Today was different. Today the man sat down across from Dean and peeked up at him shyly. Now that he was sitting in front of Dean, he wasn't sure how to start a conversation with him. He decided a greeting would do. "Hello, Dean."

The man looked up from the book he was pretending to read and said, "Hi, Cas."

Castiel shifted in his seat and became full of trepidation because he was not used to talking to people that weren't Gabriel. "My name's Castiel."

Dean was vaguely aware of that, but he preferred Cas. "Doesn't anybody call you Cas?"

Cas shook his head. "But it makes sense. A shortened version of my name. I don't mind it."

"Good. 'Cause I'm callin' you Cas. What can I do for you, Cas?" Dean leveled.

"Nothing…" Castiel looked away unsurely. Dean's gaze was so intense, but his hands were shaking. Cas knew he couldn't ask if Dean was doing okay because it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. More than anything, Castiel wanted to reach out to Dean in some way, but he didn't know how. "I was just…interested in talking to you."

"Yeah, well, we're talking."

Castiel got half a mind to get up and leave, but he remained in place. He turned his thoughts down an avenue that was slightly less dark. "I've been wondering about you."

Dean gave Cas a moderately displeased look and shrugged. "Okay."

_I like you_.

Castiel's heart throbbed and his eyes widened at his own train of thought. He liked Dean, without knowing why. For whatever reason, he'd been interested in Dean since his arrival and he cared about his fate. They hadn't even spoken to each other before, but he felt a connection to Dean. Castiel talked to Dean about the only thing he knew for certain they would have in common: crime. "Um. I've just been wondering," He faltered, "What're you in for?"

Dean heaved a heavy breath and looked down at the table like he'd just been stabbed in the chest. He hadn't been willing to tell anyone his story since arriving in the pen. Maybe now was that moment because Dean could die today or tomorrow. Maybe Castiel had appeared before him as a sign, as a symbolic priest figure to which he could confess his sins. "I killed my wife," Dean explained, "At least that's what they say, but I'm innocent."

His answer surprised Castiel, who looked upon Dean gravely. "I believe you," Castiel said earnestly. "I believe you're innocent."

"How can you?" Dean scoffed. "I haven't even told you the story yet."

When Castiel showed an obvious desire to hear his tale, Dean raked his eyes around the library to make sure they were alone before recalling his story out loud for the first time outside of a courtroom. His ordeal seemed to have happened a lifetime ago, which made it easier to relive. "You know anything about cars?"

Castiel shook his head.

"I do. I had a 1939 Graham Model 97 supercharged convertible, precious and one of a kind because she was mine. Dark exterior, powerful engine. When she made a single sound that was off, I knew about it. I knew how to pick her apart and put her back together again just right. She was my baby."

_Are we still talking about a car?_ Castiel paid close attention to Dean, hanging on his every word.

"I knew my wife like I knew my car, okay? She was one of a kind too. Sweet, beautiful, amazing. I killed something, but I tell ya, it wasn't my wife. I knew everything about her. The way she smelled, the way she smiled, and the way she…" Dean's eye twitched. He had to stop. He chewed on the inside of his mouth and recalled the awful nightmare that had been allowed to become a reality. "Some months ago, I get home from working a long day at the garage. I'm oily, dirty, and smelly. She hates that, but she always gives me a kiss anyway. That was her thing. 'Dean, you stink' and a kiss. Not that night."

Dean took a moment to reflect on what he had seen in his kitchen that night. Their cabinets were white and their wallpaper was yellow with tiny flowers. The kitchen had always been a beautiful place. Dean went on, "She was angry for no reason. Furious. She looks at me and she says, 'I'm going to kill you.' My wife doesn't make jokes like that and she wasn't joking. She grabbed a knife like she was possessed and came at me. She starts saying the most horrible things I've ever heard come out of her mouth. She says when she's done with me she's going to take the boy. She's going to chop him up into pieces and make a stew in the bathtub. It didn't make any damn sense."

Castiel gasped and his face filled with sorrow.

"Lisa never talked like that. She loved the kid more than she loved me. That's something I know. I held her off. I ran away because I couldn't hurt her, but she came after me. And I was worried about the kid, which is the only reason I shot her. As soon as I did, and I got her blood on me, I said I was sorry. I said I'd call the ambulance and everything would be okay, but she didn't care. She laughed at me, laughed like some kind of monster and didn't stop coming at me," Dean hesitated to reveal the next part of his story. Castiel took a moment to observe the cuts on Dean's arms, some of them fresh and some of them quite old.

"You're not going to believe me," Dean's brow creased, "Just like the jury didn't. Her eyes turned black. Completely black. That's how I knew, for sure, she wasn't my wife. It was something else. I shot her point blank and she got up. She got up like it was nothin' and I was scared so I shot her again. I think twelve was the – twelve is a lot of bullets. Too many."

Castiel didn't say anything. Glassy eyed, Dean went on, now unable to resist letting words fall from his mouth. "Right when I was about to give up and let her do me in, it was over, finally. There was an awful smell – like pure evil. I don't know why I would remember something like that. The kitchen was a mess. Condiments, blood, broken plates."

"I didn't lie in the courtroom. There wasn't a lie I could come up with that could possibly explain it in a way that made sense. They thought I was a sociopath because I talked about her like it wasn't her – but it _wasn't _her!" Dean exhaled, "Since I remembered everything so well and didn't have a history of mental illness, they just thought I was lying. All of a sudden everyone was talking about how I didn't have a lot of friends and how I was 'cold.' They said I came back wrong from the war. But who doesn't? My only good character witness came from the town drunk. He vouched for me, even if he didn't believe she'd been possessed. It didn't matter. It didn't matter that I'd never hurt Lisa before or that I served my country. None of that mattered. The kid… The kid saw it. He didn't see everything, but he heard us fighting from upstairs and he saw me with the gun, covered in his mom's blood. They think I killed her because I snapped about the kid not being mine. But that's bullshit. I loved the kid like he was my own. But I did take his mom. Even if she was something else at the time, Lisa never came back after that, and it's my fault."

Dean's story was so terrible and full of pain that Castiel didn't have adequate words to respond to him. Dean found himself terrified of looking at Castiel because he was afraid Cas would be like everyone else. Surely, Cas would be disgusted with him and would think he was nothing but a sadistic monster. "So there you have it," Dean said. "Now you know I'm a wife-murdering psychopath."

"I believe you," Castiel responded simply, much to Dean's surprise. Castiel didn't look like a man that was prone to joking, so Dean stared at him in astonishment for a few moments. Not a single person had believed him.

Quietly, Dean asked, "You do?"

"There is a God, Dean, and there is a Devil," Castiel stated. "There are things in this world that can't be explained with evidence."

Dean looked down at his hands and whispered, "After that night, I believed in the Devil…more than I had while I was at war."

A long, low whistle interrupted Castiel and Dean's private conversation that was not so private after all. Dean's eyes were drawn to a bookshelf from which Gabriel emerged. "That's some story, Dean," Gabriel said. "I wouldn't go tellin' everyone."

Castiel got up and hurried to get back to work. Gabriel sauntered over to Dean and scratched the back of his head. He wasn't sure if Dean was crazy or not, but he believed that Dean had acted in self-defense. The fact that Castiel believed in Dean had a great impact on Gabriel. Castiel didn't talk to anyone. He was awkward and unsure, but he was honest in his belief in the Winchester. Castiel was perceptive and always told the truth, which Gabriel knew well. When Dean looked like he was getting ready to bolt, Gabriel extended a hand. "No, hey. Wait. Since I overheard your story, I'll tell you mine."

"'Overheard.'" Dean scoffed. The emotive, verbose veteran had returned to his terse, stony shell. Dean looked for Castiel, wishing more than anything to hear his story, but remained seated to listen to Gabe.

"I'm innocent too. I beat a guy to death," Gabriel grinned, keeping up his positive demeanor. "Love thy neighbor. You know that one, right? Well, this guy was my neighbor, and so was his wife. I just decided to love the wife over him."

Dean lifted an eyebrow.

"He beat his wife and his girlfriend – probably the kids too. Being a man's neighbor, you see a lot. Funny things, coppers. Sometimes they turn a blind eye. I guess I got a little carried away, but he had it comin'. A wife-beater beaten to death," Gabriel laughed without showing a shred of remorse. "It gets me every time. If you ask me, it was poetic justice."

After telling his story about having shot his wife, it was an understatement to say that Dean was nervous. Gabriel may have been smiling, but Dean did not feel reassured in the slightest. Catching his thoughts, Gabriel gave Dean a big pat on the back. "Don't worry, buddy. I won't come after you. Like Cas says, some things in this world just can't be explained. I like that, by the way, _Cas_. I'm going to start using that."

"I should probably, ah – "

"Whoa, kemosabe! Stick around!" Gabriel answered and plopped himself on the desk. "Lighten up, Dean. We're pals."

"Sure, whatever you say," Dean replied. He was no longer sure if 'pal' or 'friend' had the same meaning they had on the outside. Still, after having relieved his soul to Cas and having received understanding rather than disgust, Dean felt slightly better. Talking to Castiel and Gabriel was something he needed. With difficulty, Dean tried to remember how to be a sociable person. Dean changed the subject, "Hey, Gabriel. I got a question for you. You got a last name?"

"Guerrero de la Cruz."

"Say what?" Dean furrowed his brows. "That whole thing's your name? Are you joking? You don't look like a…"

"Like a spik?" Gabriel narrowed his eyes.

"No, that's _not_ what I was gonna say. You don't look like a, um, Guerrero de la Cruz," Dean answered, doing his best to pronounce the name correctly. "That's all."

"Why does nobody ever believe me when I'm being honest?" Gabriel cried and lifted his hands to the heavens out of distress. "Well, that is my name. My real name."

"What's it mean?"

"Warrior of the cross," Gabriel replied and struck a dramatic, elegant pose.

"Yeah right, wise guy."

"I wish I was making that up," Gabriel smirked and then sighed. "Even I couldn't come up with a more ridiculous name."

"You speak Spanish?"

"And French, but only to my mother and to get tail," Gabriel answered and then frowned when he realized that the two circumstances were very different on a disturbing level.

"Well, whaddya know." Dean leaned forward on the table, enjoying a conversation for once. He still believed it was possible that Gabe was making it all up, but he was entertained all the same. Today was a momentous day in that it marked Dean's first smile. Today also marked the longest Dean had spoken to anyone. Full of charm and _joie de vivre_, Gabriel almost effortlessly drew Dean out.

"Family's a crazy thing. I've got some Spanish and French in me, but was born in the States. You should see my brother, Miguel. _Michael_," Gabriel mocked in a snooty tone. "He's blonde, blue-eyed, like you."

"Green," Dean corrected, "My eyes are green."

"Are they? Oh. Anyhow, ol' Miguel's got a rod up his ass _this big_," Gabriel gestured to make his point. "He's wound up tighter than Castiel. Thinks he's the Big Cheese, if you know what I mean. I'm not even sure how we're related."

"That's how I feel about my brother Sammy. He's a good kid – a real good kid. Nothing like me," Dean said sorrowfully. He hadn't spoken about Sam at all to anyone and that hurt. Gabriel and Dean shared a collective sigh of longing.

"Castiel is my brother now. For life, I guess," Gabriel stated and then shouted across the library, "Right Cas?"

Looking horrified, Castiel raised his finger to his lips and shushed Gabriel. His sharp, crystalline eyes clearly stated, _Not in the library_.

"I love you!" Gabriel whisper-shouted to Cas and Castiel shook his head and went back to his duties.

Snickering for the first time in ages, Dean replied, "You're a gas." After a second, Dean cocked his head in the direction of their bashful librarian and asked in a hushed tone, "What's Cas' last name?"

"I wish I knew," Gabriel replied. "After all these years I don't know. He doesn't know. I'm not even sure if Castiel is his real name. That's just what he's always called himself. He's a John Doe in the system. I took a peek."

The world was turning out to be a far stranger place than Dean could have ever guessed. In spite of being a jaded soldier and a convicted murderer, there were still things that puzzled him. Castiel was strange. Dean watched him searchingly and wondered about the story of the mild-mannered, Christian criminal.

* * *

One step forward, five steps back.

The following day, Dean's thrush of hope was crushed, bones and all, by the monster of men, Alastair. This time, Alastair and his men went too far and broke too much. Dean woke up in the infirmary a week later. He couldn't remember having passed in and out of consciousness over the last few days. Dean didn't remember the concussion or the stitches. He only knew that he had died, in one way or another.

His body didn't look or feel like his own and his mouth was full of the faint, rank taste of old blood. Dean hurt more than he thought a human being was capable of hurting. A guard approached Dean, but Dean couldn't recognize his face or voice. Drugs. Despite the drugs he felt so much pain. The guard said something and left an envelope by his beside. Dean welcomed losing his awareness of the world.

The next time Dean awoke, he was more alert. His eyes glanced at the rolling tray table at his side. He moved to observe it more closely and cried out in agony from the horrific ache that overtook his body. He wanted the letter. If something was still allowed to be his, Dean wanted to take it and cherish it. He reached for it with the hand that wasn't broken and gingerly worked to unseal it.

The paper in Dean's hands would become his most precious possession. In the next weeks and months, he would read it everyday, multiple times a day in spite of having it memorized. The first words written on the paper caused Dean to burst into tears and his tears only flowed more freely as he read until he was a shaking mound of misery.

_Dear Dean,_

_I miss you so much, brother. I know it's not right for me to say it, but I wish you were still here. I'm not used to being so far apart from you. It doesn't feel right at all. It's like I'm missing a limb. Garth misses you almost as much as I do. He told me to tell you he sends you a hello and a hug._

Dean cracked a sniveling smile and wiped his broken nose with his cast. His hands were trembling and his face was inundated with anguish as he read on.

_I know you're tired of hearing it, but a day doesn't go by when I don't wish it had been me taking that bullet instead of you. You're my hero, Dean. You always have been, but now you have the bullet hole to prove it. I know you're probably thinking that I'm 'talking like a broad' again, but you can shut up because you're my inspiration. I was so happy to hear that you recovered fully. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if you hadn't. I prayed for your recovery every day and I pray for you still just in case. _

_When things get tough over here, I think of you sitting at Harvelle's, having a burger and a milkshake, and that always makes me smile – a little bit jealous too. I'm glad you're working at Bobby's garage. Please keep an eye on him and his drinking. Tell Jess, the Harvelle's, Bobby, and everyone else that I love them and I miss them. When this war is over, the first thing we'll do is have a big party. The first thing after I take off these god-awful shoes, that is. I lost one of my shoes! They still don't make many in my size so I'm wearing a pair that's too tight. They're driving me bonkers. If you can, send shoes._

_I haven't heard any word from anyone in a long while, so I'm beginning to get worried. I hope you, Lisa, and Ben are doing well. Give them my love and please write back when you get the chance. Most of all, remember I love you. I love you so much._

_Your little brother,_

_Sam Winchester_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 2  
**Rating:** R  
******Beta:** Bread_and_Butterflies  
**Characters/Pairings:** Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, no pairing yet.  
**Warnings:** Strong language, violence, suicidal thoughts, minor character death, allusions to physical and sexual abuse  
**Summary:** Dean recovers from his injuries after a month in the infirmary. When he is released, Castiel is waiting for him.  
**A/N:** The hardest thing about writing 1940s!Dean is not being able to let him say 'awesome.' Oh, my darling 1940s!Dean, nothing is 'awesome' until the 1980s. Only 'swell,' I suppose. :(

I think I should also clarify that nobody is a hunter in this AU, but supernatural things exist…_or_ _do they?_

A Special Note about Racism: I wouldn't want anyone but Uriel to be my hard-assed chief guard and the warden's right hand man, but I do realize this fic takes place at a time during US history in which racial segregation was commonplace and in which extreme inequalities existed. The US Supreme Court upheld laws requiring segregation between "whites" and African-Americans in public facilities, _including prisons_, in the Plessy v. Ferguson ruling of 1896 using the justification that these facilities would be "separate but equal"…which everyone knew was a HEAPING load of bollocks. Even the military was segregated until 1948 – another massive injustice since many African-Americans served in WWII. The US Supreme Court ruled that segregation was unconstitutional in 1954 (see Brown v. Board of Education), but it wasn't until the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 that the government really had the power to enforce desegregation, which was a slow, violent process.

So, Dean and all the other characters of this fic grew up during a time in which institutionalized racism and oppression was acceptable and even encouraged. Speaking of Dean, he hates all Germans. He thinks they are all Nazis. Unfavorable sentiments towards Italians and the Japanese may also be expressed in this fic because these nations were a part of the Axis Powers during WWII. Dean's perception of the world is very much colored by his experience in the war. These racial themes will pop up every now and then. Even if they aren't the main focus they are important to know for the context of this story. I just thought this note might be helpful for people unfamiliar with US history and I think it will help avoid any offense or confusion that may arise. Also, who doesn't love fanfic mixing with history? Amirite? Eh? Ehhhhh?

Sorry my A/N are so long! Next time I will be brief, I promise. Carry on to the fic! Please enjoy. :D

* * *

The turning of the New Year had come with momentous changes in Dean's life. January 2, 1944 had marked the day of Dean being transferred to Curtanica Correctional Penitentiary where Gabriel and Castiel had watched him take his long, remorseful walk to join them in a life of confinement. Lisa had been killed early in December of the previous year, just in time for Dean to leave Ben alone to the worst Christmas of his life. The twenty-forth of January had been the most tragic, lonely, and painful birthday Dean had ever experienced. Dean didn't think he deserved to have another birthday celebration for as long as he lived, but he remembered this one anyway because it was the first birthday he had ever spent apart from Sam. Dean's twenty-fifth birthday was also special because it marked the only birthday he had spent covered in sores and bruises.

March 18, 1944 was a day just as important as all these other moments in Dean's new, devastating life, but it passed without Dean being aware of its significance.

Before Dean was ever released from the infirmary, the problem of Alastair was resolved. Alastair sat on his bed one night, waiting, as if he knew tonight was special. He was thumbing through a book of poetry, calmly passing the time. He heard a single clang, and then another. Alastair looked up at his guest, "Good evening, Uriel."

"Alastair," Uriel responded with a respectful nod. Of all the prisoners, Alastair was among the men he hated most. Uriel could imagine the man's poor victims as though they had been his own brothers and sisters.

"A little too much, was it?" Alastair guessed. The thought of the Winchester lying hurting and helpless did make him smile, but he knew he was about to pay for it. "You're right, of course. I could have made him last longer."

"You know why I'm here."

Alastair stood and gave a deep bow, ready to face his worthy opponent. It was fitting, he thought, that Uriel should have a weapon while he did not.

"You're to be reprimanded. Warden's orders, you sick sack of shit." Uriel's blows were swift, brutal, and cracking. He couldn't hit Alastair hard enough to satisfy. He took vengeance for not just the Winchester, but also for every soul that had ever suffered in fear by Alastair's hands. Uriel wanted to know if Alastair would still be so arrogant without any of his teeth. As it turned out, he was.

* * *

After a month in the infirmary, Dean wandered out into the daylight. It strained his eyes. He didn't like it anymore. He wanted nothing but to rest in his bed forever. Slowly, Dean ambled to his cell and collapsed into his bed. He had healed remarkably well, but was still a pitiful sight. Carefully, he pulled Sam's letter from the inside of the cast he wore on his left hand. He'd put it there so Sam's words could touch his flesh at all times like a brand of hope and familial love.

The paper was dirty now, but nonetheless beautiful and perfect. He opened it and stared at the lettering. Dean didn't read the letter so much as he felt its contents. Sam wouldn't hear from anyone back home because Dean had made everyone swear not to tell Sam what had happened. He couldn't allow Sam to know that he was a murderer. Sam was too precious to be burdened by the terrible news of Dean's fate in addition to everything else Dean knew he must have been suffering.

When he gathered enough energy, Dean walked around his cell looking for the most appropriate hole in the wall. When he found it, he chiseled at it with his fingernails to make it larger. Then, Dean carefully folded Sam's letter, placed it in an empty shoe polish tin, and hid it in the wall under his bed. Now, Sam's letter was safe and Dean's cell was more like a home because it was embedded with Sam's love, making the thought of living there less painful. Sam's letter acted as an invisible, secret shield. As far as Dean was concerned, words on paper had never been more powerful.

After hiding Sam's letter, Dean rested in bed for only a few moments before he turned and was startled by the sight of Castiel watching him. "Jesus!" Dean cried, "What the hell, Cas!"

Castiel smiled faintly, more glad to see Dean than he could have imagined, "May I come in?"

Unused to people being so polite, Dean nodded stiffly. The Winchester sat up on his bed, wincing slightly. Strangely, Castiel sat right next to him, a little too close for comfort. Their hips were nearly touching.

"Um…" Dean gave Castiel an unnerved stare. He got a wonderful, heaping eyeful of Castiel's unkempt handsomeness and that added to his anxiety. "Cas," Dean swallowed, "You, uh, you don't have to sit so close. You're in my personal space here."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Castiel replied and reluctantly scooted away from Dean. Dean would have preferred if Castiel had gotten entirely off his bed, but he supposed he could handle Cas sitting beside him for the moment.

Dean got the feeling there was something that wasn't right with Cas, but he couldn't yet put his finger on it. Castiel wasn't talkative and he appeared to have minimal understanding of personal space and how to speak to people, but Dean happened to find him interesting. Inexplicably, Dean didn't feel threatened by Cas and he had no desire to tell him to get lost, so he asked, "Is there a reason why you're here?"

"Close your eyes."

"Excuse me? I'm not closing my eyes! Cas, this is getting weird!" Dean cried. "Seriously weird!"

"Oh…" Castiel expressed confusion, "Gabriel said I should say that. He said it would be a better surprise if you closed your eyes."

Dean's jaw dropped. Dean was having an entire range of unwanted feelings and thoughts that he had difficulty concealing. He watched the odd ball Castiel reach inside his jacket pocket and pull something out. Dean was moderately terrified until he caught a whiff of pure heaven. He knew what the object in Castiel's hands was before it was placed into his own. Dean's heart raced as he looked down at the bundle in his hands. "Is this for me?"

Castiel nodded in reply and watched with anticipation. Dean pulled back a corner of the white handkerchief covering the article in his hand. Before he even saw the item wrapped inside, Dean began to salivate. Looking upon the small prize roused his hunger.

_Apple pie._

For a split second, Dean was certain that he had fallen in love with Castiel, the pie, or maybe both. His cell was no longer a cell or a room with four walls. It was any peaceful, sunny café in the world. It was every diner Dean would never see again. It was Harvelle's on any given day. It was mom's kitchen. Dean held the pie like it was a cherished artifact. "Pie," Dean faltered, "You got me pie?"

"Gabriel did. He told me to bring it to you," Castiel answered.

Dean looked at the pie, moved by its simple magnificence. "It's so beautiful."

"You should eat it," Castiel answered. "It was baked just yesterday."

The pie was almost too beautiful to eat – _almost_. To eat the pie in his hands, Dean thought he would have gladly sucked Castiel's cock, but he didn't have to. He marveled at the fortunate situation he found himself in. When Dean ate, he wasn't eating pie, but the embodiment of elation. Castiel watched Dean eat with enjoyment, which might have been disconcerting in any other situation when Dean wasn't recovering from injuries and starved for pie. As he satisfied his ravenous appetite, Dean made gratuitous sounds of delight.

"You want some?" Dean asked when there were only a few bites left. He was really hoping Castiel would say no.

Castiel waved his hands dismissively. "It's for you, Dean."

"Oh my God…" Dean moaned and devoured the rest, thinking it was the most wonderful thing he had ever put in his mouth. He didn't know what he had done to deserve such pleasure. He would never be able to pay Gabriel back. After finishing, Dean sat with a sugar and syrup laced mouth, fulfilled and purely happy.

"Did you like it?" Castiel asked, eager to hear him say yes. In response, Dean licked his fingers and then licked the white handkerchief.

"It was so good. It was so, so good," Dean sighed, "I wish I could eat only that pie for the rest of my life."

Castiel chuckled, which was something new and beautiful in of itself. Dean looked upon his typically timid companion and decided he would regard him as a true friend from then on. "How? Why? Why would Gabriel get me pie? Why would he send you to give it to me?"

"When you were under the effects of the medicine, you would moan about pie all day. Frank complained so loudly about it that we eventually heard. It's Gabriel's 'welcome back' present," Castiel explained and shrugged, "He thought it was funny."

Dean grinned from ear to ear, a feat made somewhat painful from lack of practice. "Where the hell is Gabe?"

"He was in the yard last time I saw him. He said he was busy writing. I don't know what, but he wanted you to have the pie right away," Castiel said, completely ignorant of the fact that Gabriel had sent him on the errand so he could make a new friend. Gabriel was fascinated by the interest Cas had for Dean and felt it would add to his amusement if he nudged the pair together. Gabriel also knew that Dean preferred Castiel. Currying Dean's favor through the inmate dearest to his heart was something that could ultimately benefit them all.

"Thanks," Dean said. "Thanks for bringing it to me."

"You're welcome," The other man replied. He hesitated before asking his next question. "How are you feeling?"

"Swell," Dean's joy was so exuberant that even the aches in his body were nothing to him. "I'm so fucking swell."

Dean sought Gabriel out soon after. He found the man in his cell, poring over a journal. When Gabriel saw Dean, he shut his book and hid it under his pillow. "Dean-o! Fancy meeting you here."

"Thanks for the pie," Dean said with gratitude.

"You can thank Uriel's wife. She's the artiste," Gabriel beamed and swung his legs over his bed to face Dean. "She makes the best pie. I pulled some strings and got an entire pie. I ate most of it."

"Uriel?" Dean's eyebrows shot up on his face because he was surprised anything good could come from Uriel.

"Yup! Also, Alastair's dead. Another one of Uriel's gifts."

The news collided into him like a comet. Dean had never been happier to hear of the demise of a person in his life. The only death he might have welcomed more was Hitler's. The tension he always carried in his body miraculously lifted, and Dean babbled, "Dead? Dead for good?"

"He's dead-dead. _Muerte_. Six feet under. Swimmin' with the fishes. Sittin' on a throne in Hell," Gabriel answered, but he could see Dean was still stunned, "You'd be surprised, Dean. You would be surprised how long Uriel's been waiting to get too rough with that nogoodnik."

"Wow," Dean exhaled.

"Come here. Let me tell you a thing or two about Uriel. He might be quick to strike, but he's got a good side. If you want to avoid Death by Uriel, you have to avoid a couple of things. Numero Uno, don't insult his wife. Numero Dos, don't insult his…" In the stead of explicitly stating it, Gabriel explained with a gesture. He waved his hand over his own face, suggesting that Uriel's appearance was off limits for ridicule. A man of color didn't often have the opportunity to have the job that Uriel had and rarely had the amount of power he carried. Apart from the warden, Uriel was the highest authority at the institution. The sight of a black man in charge at a white's only prison put many inmates on edge on day one. Uriel was a tough, old vet that knew how to get his way and any man that disrespected him ended up regretting it. Gabriel went on, "You don't look down on Uriel, he looks down on you."

Dean was interested in Uriel's story, but more concerned about the details of the neglect that had led to so much of his suffering. "Why'd it take him so long to do something?"

Gabriel shook his head, thinking Dean was so innocent. "Dean, he didn't do what he did for you. That's another thing. Uriel's glued to his orders, even if he does interpret them with his own flair. When the warden says, 'Jump,' Uriel asks how high. Actually, their whole relationship is odd. You can't cross one without crossing the other. Uriel was waiting for orders, you see. So don't go thinking he's your new best friend."

Dean shrugged and Gabriel laughed.

"_I'm_ Uriel's favorite," Gabriel claimed proudly. Of course, in his mind, Gabriel was convinced he was everyone's favorite. "'Cause he likes a good joke. Under all that law and order, he's got a great laugh. Anyhow, welcome back!"

Gabriel stood and gathered a pile of his dirty laundry. He dumped the smelly garments and sheets in Dean's arms. Dean was taken aback, "What the hell is this?"

"Laundry for the doing. Nothing's free around here," Gabriel smiled and shoved Dean along. Dean made a face, but decided a little bit of laundering wasn't a bad price to pay for an amazing piece of pie.

That night, Dean got another treat in the form of a song. Tender, beautiful notes filled the prison about half an hour after lights went out. They began low and soft, like a comforting caress. Steadily, they rose into an enchanting lullaby. Dean sat up, believing that he was being subjected to an otherworldly tune because it was so lovely and he could not understand the words. When Dean finally recognized the language as French, he knew the voice could belong to no one other than Gabriel. When Gabriel sang, everyone listened. A surreal moment passed through every convict's cage, affecting the murderers, the thieves, and all the rest equally. Dean didn't have to know what the words meant to feel the song's power.

'Dean's Lullaby,' Gabriel called it. He'd been inspired by the Winchester and took the night of his return to make their prison a glorious amphitheater in his honor. Gabriel had decided he would let his fellow inmates judge the worthiness of the song. If he was heckled, he would stop, knowing the song was subpar. Nobody made a sound.

* * *

Things got easier for Dean in the next few days. Since Dean no longer lived in constant terror, he felt more comfortable gravitating towards other people. More often than not, it was Castiel he sought out in the yard. Dean still wasn't well enough to take up any of his duties, so he spent a lot of time reading dime novels about the old West in the fresh air as he waited for Cas. He was flipping through a copy of _The Ox-Bow Incident_ when Castiel declared his desire to start teaching Dean chess. Cas was in love with the game, but Gabriel wouldn't often play with him. Gabriel preferred to run around, bothering anyone that would lend him an ear.

The first game of chess that Cas ever played with Dean ended in four moves. "You son of a bitch," Dean cried. "How'd you do that? That's not fair!"

Dean surveyed the board in disbelief. With patience, Castiel explained, "You have to think ahead."

"I know that!" Dean grumbled, "I wasn't ready. That was just a test game. I haven't played in a long time. Rematch."

Castiel tried to lose the second time, but he still beat Dean in ten moves. The Winchester cursed and fidgeted nervously, thinking that Cas was some kind of chess genius. "Did you want to play with me just to beat me?"

Castiel shook his head, "No. Don't worry, Dean. I wasn't very good when I started playing either."

"He's lying! He came out of the womb a master at that game!" Gabriel exclaimed in passing. "Don't play with him, Dean. It will only end in tears."

Gabriel, perhaps, didn't know that Dean was born with a determined disposition and a competitive streak. Dean raised his eyes to Castiel's face, silently promising to thrash him one day. "Teach me the damn game," Dean grit out.

For days, Dean neglected his Western fantasy worlds to lose at chess. He would read the chess book Castiel had loaned him in the evenings. He learned new strategies and improved, but could never quite best Castiel. Eventually, his passionate desire to beat Cas was overshadowed by the pleasure of their daily conversations.

Prison didn't feel like a part of the world. Dean thought it was more like Limbo and his conversations with Cas were acceptable in this space because Dean was trapped there. No man was there of his choice and they were all waiting for something – death or release. Dean knew he would never have the opportunity to befriend a person that had not been convicted of some crime, so Castiel would have to become every friend on the outside that Dean would never know. In the unusual locale that was void of women and full of beatings Dean had come to worry less about what it might mean if he shared his inner feelings and his past with another man. In fact, he found it felt very good, especially when he shared with Cas.

"Why do you wanna know about my dad?" Dean asked over one of their games.

"Fathers are important, and I can't remember mine," Castiel returned. He'd often wondered about Dean's family and the man that had influenced Dean to join a life of military service.

"Dad was tough," Dean stated as he contemplated his next move. "And he was pretty smart too. Everything I know about cars, I learned from him. I got his toughness, obviously, but Sammy got his brains."

"You sell yourself short, my friend," Castiel commented. Dean wasn't as dumb as he had convinced himself he was.

"Tch," Dean glared at Cas and made his move. "Anyway, Dad's biggest fault was his drinking. I'm surprised I wasn't born soused. He drank a lot before the war, but even more after it. At least that's what Mom would always say."

"The Great War?" Castiel asked.

"The first Great War, yes sir. He scared a lot of kids… Actually, a lot of everyone," Dean grinned as he remembered his terrifying father. He traced a finger over his face as he described John Winchester's most noticeable feature. "He had a scar running from his jaw up to his eye. He got it from standing too close to an explosion. A piece of shrapnel jammed right into his head. Whoosh! Just like that. His whole body was a mess, but people noticed his face first. He was fully deaf in his right ear and half-blind in that eye."

Castiel checked Dean's king, but Dean was too absorbed in telling his father's story to be upset about it.

"I used to want to be just like him. A man's man that commanded respect," Dean frowned in his nostalgia. Although Dean thought Castiel was nothing at all like his father had been, he had a similar aura of authority that he was only recognizing now. "I told you my mom died, right?"

"Yes."

"She died having Sammy and Dad was never the same after that. He stopped taking care of us. He would disappear and drink so much. He was angry all the time. I think he wanted to take revenge for Mom, but there was nobody to take his anger out on. Sam was just a baby. He was the last bit of Mom so Dad loved him best."

"You think he loved your brother more than he loved you?" Castiel inquired.

"I don't 'think,' I know he did. All the time Dad would say, 'Watch out for Sam. Look after your brother.' When he got home he didn't ask how I was doing, he just asked about Sammy and he'd go off the rails if anything happened to Sam. Didn't give a rat's ass about me," Dean declared. "And he gave me a damn whole lot of opportunities to watch out for Sam because he left me alone at home all the time. I did the cooking everyday. I did the laundry, the dishes, and everything else Mom used to do. I took Sam to school and brought him back. All the while, Dad would show up at work when he felt like it, usually drunk. Even so – "

Dean made a move in their game before continuing with his story. "Even with his drinking, he still managed to fix up cars right, which is the only reason he never got fired. Eventually, he drank himself to death."

"I'm sorry," Castiel answered. He had guessed, but hadn't known for certain that Dean's father was dead.

"It didn't make too much of a difference," Dean said, but the look on his face suggested otherwise. "I still did everything. And Dad's dying words were, 'Look out for Sam.'"

Dean was leaving out a lot of information because it was too difficult to tell Castiel that his father had wept and asked to be forgiven for making his life so difficult. The only time Dean remembered his father saying he was proud of him was on the day he died. "I didn't believe he was dying, but he had lowered his immunity and destroyed all his organs. I think he wanted to die."

Castiel settled Dean with a long, searching look. "That's terrible."

"Isn't everything?" Dean countered.

Castiel made his final move. "Checkmate."

Flabbergasted, Dean stared down at the board. "Again? You – you! I was distracted! Rematch, you sly fucker."

Castiel sniggered softly because it was endearing that Dean never gave up. Castiel knew at least one thing that was quite the opposite of terrible and that was Dean. Very little could be anything other than wonderful to Cas when he was around Dean. Amused, Castiel questioned Dean, "Should I let you win next time?"

"You even dare say that to me again and bad things are gonna happen."

"Cas, let him win one. It's boring watching Dean lose all the time," Gabriel said from beneath the bleachers where Dean and Cas were sitting. Their eyes turned downwards to see Gabriel lying on his back staring back up at them. Dean became irritated by the intrusion.

"What the hell are you doing down there?"

"Eavesdropping," Gabriel answered and popped something red and shiny into his mouth. Dean squinted down at him.

"Is that candy?"

"No," Gabriel lied and hid the tin on his chest in his pocket.

"I hope you choke on that not-candy!" Dean shouted, "Quit eavesdropping!"

"No," Gabriel whined and pouted, "Nobody ever wants to have heart-to-hearts with me. This is the only way I get the scoop."

"Nobody tells you nothin' 'cause you're a friggin' blabbermouth!" Dean returned. Gabriel got up from his spot and wandered away, kicking the dirt and grumbling about how he was going to go 'blabber' to the other inmates.

* * *

Dean was soon pushed back into his dishwashing duties even though the doctor hadn't yet cleared him to be on his feet all day. There was another obvious obstacle that only Dean seemed to notice. When Dean was put back on dishwashing duties on a rainy day in April, he stared down at the dirty sink of slop-covered dishes without doing anything. Eventually, the guard known as Edgar passed by the kitchen and confronted Dean.

"What's the problem?" He said, raking his dark, beady eyes around the kitchen.

Dean lifted his broken hand and said, "How the fuck am I supposed to wash these dishes with this cast? Doc says I'm not supposed to get it wet."

"So put a bag on it," The swarthy guard replied and the Winchester shot Edgar a vicious glare.

"You want me to wash dishes with one hand? You're bustin' my chops here, Edgar! Give me a break!" Dean railed.

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Take me up to Zachariah. I wanna change duties."

Edgar groaned, but complied. He left Dean face to face with the man Dean couldn't tolerate. As always, Uriel was there to protect the warden. Dean knew he would have to show Zachariah more respect this time around if he wanted to get the assignment he desired most. Dean gave the warden a slight bow and said, "Good afternoon, Warden."

"Dean. What can I do for you?" Zachariah asked with false concern because everything about the warden was a ridiculous farce.

"I'd like to request a change in my duties, sir. I want to be taken off dishwashing."

"Oh? Why is that?"

Dean lifted his hand, "Doc's orders say I can't get this wet."

"Have you tried putting a bag on it?" Zachariah said and Dean resisted rolling his eyes with considerable effort. The warden mused to himself and realized it wouldn't be very efficient for a one-armed man to wash hundreds of dishes. Efficiency was everything. "Hm, well I'm not sure where else we need people. Let me check."

"How about the library, sir?" Dean said as Zachariah flipped through his book of inmate duty appointments. Uriel gave Dean a long look before catching the gaze of the warden.

"We already have a man in the library. Uriel, what's his name?" Zachariah snapped his fingers, "The creepy, icy-eyed guy…"

"Castiel, sir."

"Castiel!" the warden repeated. When he remembered Castiel, an expression of astonishment crossed his face. Inmates never wanted to work with Castiel. Memories flooded back to Zachariah and he recalled that the library could be staffed with up to three people and was in dire need of help. "Nobody likes working with him. Would you be fine working with Castiel?"

"Yes," Dean answered and couldn't help asking, "Why is that? Why don't people like to work with Cas?"

"Cas? Is that what he's going by these days?" Zachariah curled his lip in distaste. He looked at Dean like he was an idiot with a death wish. The warden decided it was best not to explain anything to Dean because he didn't know if anyone would ever volunteer to work in the library again. "No reason. Library it is."

"Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure, Dean," Zachariah said. He gave Dean a pat on the back as he led him out of his office. "I did tell you I would extend my hospitality whenever possible. Enjoy the library. Castiel will explain your duties."

The day Dean joined Castiel in the library should have marked a significant turning point for the better in Dean's life. He had hoped it would, but it didn't. Castiel explained the procedures for checking out books to the other inmates and returning them. He showed Dean every aspect of the library and explained the new archiving system he was devising. Dean found it all to be dreadfully monotonous. He respected the written word, but he was meant to work on cars. He needed hand's-on labor and mechanical challenges. The books were smelly and eternally being moved by other inmates. The shelves were dusty and many were broken. Dean spent a long time fixing the shelves and desks. In the beginning of his new assignment, he was more of a carpenter than a librarian and he liked it better that way.

It wasn't just the tediousness of the job that made Dean's mood spiral downwards. It wasn't just the fact that he knew he might live to do the job he was doing now until he was an old man. Dean was tormented by things that lived only in his mind. He hadn't told a soul, even Cas, about his reoccurring nightmares. He dreamt of Alastair taunting him from Hell because Alastair was such a severe wound that even his death could not complete Dean's peace. Worse than those dreams, Dean had a dream about Lisa that disturbed him on such a level that he fought his body's need for sleep, letting the skin beneath his eyes develop heavy, dark circles of unrest. He dreamt this dream about Lisa more than he dreamt about Alastair's ghost.

The nightmare always began with a cloud of black smoke. The cloud was stifling and inescapable. Smoke injected his lungs like gaseous acid, burning him from the inside. Suffocated, Dean would see Lisa, not as the woman she had been, but as a black-eyed, knife-wielding killer. Dean would beg Lisa to stop until he was a sobbing mess. He smelled and tasted blood and heard her blame him for her murder, using coarse, crude language. She hated him with a fury that made Dean forget Lisa had ever loved him at all. Dean would wake up remembering that he had killed the mother of the boy he had called his son. In the dark, he would cry and wordlessly plead for death because he was wearing so thin. Dean wished for the ability to take back what he had done. If he had known what he knew now, he would have let Lisa kill him. Maybe she had lied about her violent plans for Ben. Maybe she really had wanted him dead all along and his death could have been the end of their struggle.

Dean felt worthless to the world now.

Castiel didn't know how bad it was until Dean didn't show up to work one day. It was a Thursday. Cas looked out of the windows at the rising sun and an unsettling feeling perched itself on his chest. Cas climbed down the ladder he had been on and walked with purpose to Dean's cell. It was empty, as he expected to find it. Cas' hunch led him to the bathroom with the communal showers. He found Dean standing in front of one of the pipes on the wall, holding a makeshift noose made out of cloth.

Castiel wasn't surprised because he recalled another man that had made a similar move years ago. This time, it hurt so much more because it was Dean. There was something brilliant within Dean that was hidden under mountains of pain. Castiel addressed him with a steady tone, "The pipe will break from your weight."

Dean gripped the cloth in his hands more tightly. His eyes moved down, unseeing. Castiel's voice kept him grounded, but only just barely. Dean didn't respond. Castiel approached his unmoving figure. "Don't try it."

"I want to," Dean replied softly. A tear rolled down his cheek. He felt dead inside already and didn't know why it was wrong to want his corporeal prison to be equally lifeless.

"I don't want you to," Castiel answered.

"I made it up, Cas. I'm a fucking liar," Dean cried quietly and his shoulders began to tremble. "I know what I saw. I know I couldn't have seen what I saw. I-It's…it's not possible. Demons don't exist. I killed her. Just her."

When Castiel eased forward, Dean pressed his hands hard into his face, getting his cast and his cloth noose damp with his agony. Dean felt sick to his core when he thought about how he had turned Ben into an orphan and killed Lisa well before it was her time to go. "I oughta be dead," Dean whimpered, "I deserve to die. How could I do something like that? How could I?"

_To Lisa…beautiful Lisa. Why did I kill you?_

Castiel considered Dean's words. He considered the fact that it was possible that Dean had lied to him the first time he told him his story. Cas wondered if he would feel differently about Dean if Dean had killed his wife because he wanted to. If he didn't, would that make Cas a bad person?

"What possible reason could you have had to kill her?" Castiel asked.

Dean didn't have an answer to that. He'd reasoned that he was a despicable person, but he still hadn't been able to reason why he had done such a despicable thing. If there was nothing supernatural about his case, there had to be a motive grounded in ordinary logic. "I never loved her. I never loved her like she loved me," Dean suggested. Despite the truth of his words, he didn't believe that was the reason. Desperately, he went on, "Maybe I did go crazy. Maybe, for a second, I was out of my mind."

Dean turned to look at Castiel and regarded him through a river of tears. He was so full of hate for himself that his body weakened and he lowered himself to the dirty, tiled floor and hunched there like a heap of trash. Dean sobbed into the noose silently and heard Castiel sit down next to him. "I don't think that's what happened," Castiel said. "I think the first story you told me was the truth."

"N-No. It wasn't. Demons are just things bad people make up as excuses for bad behavior," Dean shook and wiped his nose. "There ain't no thing. Only bad people, and I'm one of 'em."

"That isn't true."

Dean looked up at Castiel, wondering why he cared. Dean wasn't sure he could trust the word of another criminal. "How do you know?"

"There's a ghost in the closet."

Castiel's words struck Dean as being so odd that he stopped crying, full stop. "What?"

"There's a ghost in the closet."

"I heard what you said! Why does that matter?"

"Because if there's ghosts, there could be other things too." Castiel stood and offered Dean his hand. Dean was in so much misery, but the thought of a ghost in the closet intrigued him.

"Really?" He hiccupped.

Castiel beckoned Dean with his hand. "I'll show you."

Suicide could be postponed for now, he decided. Dean took Castiel's hand and let the man pull him to his feet. The Winchester wiped his face clean and followed Castiel on weak legs to a janitor's closet that was no longer in use. Castiel went in first and told Dean to shut the door after he had joined him. The space was cluttered, tight, and pitch black. Never would Dean have expected that he would end up in a darkened closet with Castiel that day. Dean swallowed and sniffled up the last bit of his tears. "Turn on the light."

"There is no light, Dean," Castiel replied mysteriously. He pointed up to the blub overhead. "No light will ever shine in this place."

Unnerved, Dean looked up at the bulb and his eyes gradually adjusted to the dark to be able to trace its faint outline. So far Dean thought the creepiest thing in this closet was Castiel. "Bad wiring," Dean reasoned, "I don't see anything haunted about this damn closet."

A box fell on Dean's head with a sharp thunk. The Winchester cursed and rubbed his scalp. Castiel gasped and pulled Dean away from the shelf. "That's the ghost."

Dean huffed and scoffed. "Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit, Cas. This isn't funny. Stop horsin' around."

"Dean! Listen to me!" Castiel hissed. "The ghost moves things. Nobody can ever be in here for more than five minutes. It doesn't like intruders and that's why this closet is never used."

"An old rickety shelf! Wiring that doesn't work! Who wants a closet with no working light? There's nothin' special about this damn closet."

Something, like a runaway screw or nail, rolled around on the shelf behind Castiel. _Mice_, Dean hypothesized. Castiel pulled Dean closer out of concern for his safety. In a whisper, inches from his ear, Cas said, "There was an inmate that died in this prison. He would hide in this closet to avoid beatings. He was small and afraid. His spirit could never overcome his fear and it inhabits this closet, believing it will be safe here. His bloody cap still lies somewhere in this closet."

Dean felt a sharp chill run through his spine. Castiel had never been particularly good at telling stories, but this one hit close to home and had an essence of authenticity. "How do you know all that?"

"Research. Shh, listen," Castiel urged. A moaning creak and tiny taps fell on their ears, giving Dean the shameful desire to dive into Castiel's arms. _Nothing special about creaky old pipes_. It was just a closet and a creepy story, Dean told himself. Yet, the darkness felt more unwelcome with every passing second. Dean felt a stifling pressure that reminded him of the black cloud of his dream. Everything was very still. Suddenly, the bulb above them began to swing gently and something rustled.

_The wind. It's just the wind._ Despite his reassuring thoughts, Dean's fingers curled into Castiel's denim jacket. Something heavy fell.

"O-Okay! Enough closet time!" Dean bolted out of the closet, dragging Castiel with him. He stepped away from the dark, abandoned haven and found that his breath had hastened from whatever experience they had just had.

"It's the ghost, Dean. Everyone leaves that closet with that feeling," Castiel explained. Regardless of what he said, Cas appeared quite calm.

"What about you?" Dean asked, "Does it spook you?"

"I don't like it. There's something not right about that closet."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 3

**Rating:** R

**Characters/Pairing:** Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, no pairings yet

**Warnings: **Strong language

**Summary: **Castiel shares what little he knows about himself with Dean. Gabriel introduces Dean to a new friend and helps Dean with his nightmares. A challenge arises for the trio when bad news reaches the prison.

**A/N: **I sing the title to this fic almost every time I look at it. Listen to "Folsom Prison Blues" by Johnny Cash and you'll understand. If you haven't before, you should definitely listen to it because it's the best prison song ever written.

Apologies in advance for possibly butchering the Italian language in this chapter. I did my best, but if you note errors, let me know. I will be appreciative. Thank you.

* * *

Dean's nightmares didn't subside, but his visions of Lisa and Alastair became increasingly infiltrated by his old memories and nightmares of war, which were sometimes more horrifying than his other terrors. He fought Nazis in his sleep, as he had once done in his waking hours. Dean woke up feeling his shoulder throb where he had been struck by a German bullet and didn't know if the pain was real or just in his head. He grinned wryly when he realized he missed the days when Nazis haunting him at night were the worst of his problems.

Each day after breakfast, Dean would eagerly run to the library to work with Cas, whose mere presence comforted him. Castiel's calm and steady demeanor and his confidence in his beliefs countered Dean's fidgetiness and turmoil quite well. Being around Castiel was soothing like resting on a boat on a tranquil lake. Dean and Cas became so attached to each other that it was uncommon to see one without the other far behind.

When the library was vacant except for them, Dean would chatter to Cas through rows of shelves. "You don't remember your father. You don't remember where you're from. Don't you think that's odd, Cas?"

"Very."

"You got any guesses where you might be from?" Dean questioned cautiously. Apart from the twelve years Castiel had spent in prison so far, he did not seem able to remember much else. Dean suspected his memory loss was due to severe psychological or physical trauma. He was careful when he question Castiel because he didn't want to trigger anything unpleasant in his friend.

Castiel became pensive and halted his shelving, "I was arrested in Illinois, but that isn't my home state. All I can tell you is that I grew up around mountains. I remember white mixing with blue. Snow."

Castiel could see the mountains in his mind's eye. They were beautiful and expansive, always snowy at the peaks. Castiel liked the cold and the snow. Dean got down from the ladder he was on to pull out a large rolling map of the kinds used at schools. He beckoned Castiel to his side. "We can figure this out. There's only so many mountains in the world." Dean pointed to the first mountain range that caught his eyes. "The Himalayas."

Castiel smiled, "I don't think so, Dean."

"Yeah, me neither. Hm... Appalachia?"

"It's no use. I can never remember no matter how I try."

"You could be from Europe or Eurasia. Maybe a refugee. The Soviet Union has a lot of mountains _and_ snow."

"Well, I do speak Russian," Castiel said, cocking his head to the side.

Dean became affected by excitement and wonder at learning a new detail about his friend. "No kidding? That's incredible! I didn't know that. You've gotta be Russian!"

"I hate to disappoint you, but, uh..." Embarrassed, Castiel quietly admitted, "I can speak five different languages fluently. I speak English, Russian, Spanish, French, and Italian."

"Fluently?" Dean gaped. His esteem for Cas grew markedly. He had suspected Castiel was a genius, but now he was convinced. Dean had never met a sexier, more powerful brain. "Fuck, Cas. What the hell are you doing here? You oughta be president of something, or a professor. Chess, books, languages? You've got a lot of savvy. A heck of a lot."

"Please don't tell anyone," Castiel begged. What Dean saw as impressive, others regarded as frightening and bizarre.

"Why not? You're brilliant and you oughta be proud. I'd love to have some of those brains."

"People already think there's something wrong with me. I came in here only knowing English. I learned the rest in a year."

"A year? One year? Fuck me, Cas," Dean asked incredulously, "How the hell does a person learn so many languages in a year?"

"Once you know one romance language, it's rather simple to learn the rest. Spanish was the first one I learned and it just came to me easily. Gabriel helped me a little. He liked being able to talk to me in secret – said it was a sign that we were meant to be brothers. I suppose with Russian I just had too much time on my hands…" Castiel answered modestly. _Before you_. The library had been full with the sounds of Castiel's records before Dean came to fill the building with his pleasant chatter. Cas' interest in languages had been kindled when he first began to become friends with Gabriel. Soon, Castiel surpassed his friend in knowledge. His desire to learn Russian had originated from his interest in world affairs. Castiel continued, "This is my twelfth year here so I've had a lot of time. I thought, why not? I always wanted to be able to read the Russian on the newsreels and in the papers. I was fascinated by the look of it. Crazy Martin thinks I'm a spy now. Or a super soldier."

Dean scoffed, "Nobody listens to Martin. And what the hell's he mean a super soldier? Like Steve Rogers?"

"Who's Steve Rogers?"

"Who's Steve Rogers, he says! Captain America! Sheesh, you've been put away too long. He's a superhero, super soldier that came out a few years ago. He's got this kooky costume and everything. Still, he's got nothing on Batman." When Cas gave him another confused look, Dean exhaled, "Comics, Cas! I used to buy them for Ben."

Dean may have bought them for Ben, but sometimes he would enjoy them more than the boy. Superheroes were a delightful new phenomenon less than a decade old that Dean would have loved to have had growing up. Dean explained the origin stories of Batman and Captain America to Cas as they got back to work.

"So that's why Batman is the best. He doesn't need super powers, but he's still a superhero. I think he's gonna be big, maybe bigger than Superman. Anyway...What was I saying? Oh yeah. You've got super brains and you shouldn't be embarrassed to use them. Who gives a damn what Crazy Martin or anyone else has to say? If you want to learn more languages you should. Learn whatever you want. I'll be damned, this is America, Cas. Land of the free."

Slowly, Castiel parted the books on his shelf to peer over at Dean through a few shelves in front of him. He watched, more than he listened, to the other man as Dean praised his 'wits' and 'brains' with candid admiration. Castiel felt his fondness for Dean grow into something grander. It became something strong and unfamiliar and he welcomed the feeling gladly because it made him feel like he was on the moon. A question was directed at Cas.

"Hey, you mind sayin' something in one of those languages you know? I'd sure like to hear it."

Castiel did not have to contemplate for long before replying heartfelt words in Italian. "Tu sei l'uomo più bello che abbia mai visto. I tuoi occhi sono così verde e sempre sincero."

_You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Your eyes are so green and always sincere._

"Wow!" Dean remarked, smiling. The phrases spoken in Cas' deep voice sounded so romantic and appealing to his ears. Dean recognized the language almost immediately. "That's Italian."

When Castiel replied in the affirmative, Dean asked what the words meant and Castiel knew he had to lie. "It's from a love poem. It doesn't translate well, but it's about the most beautiful girl in the world."

"I thought so! Geez, I never would have figured you as a fella into romantic poems," Dean sighed, "Italians. Poor, fascist bastards have such a beautiful language. That's where I got shot, you know. Italy."

Dean never volunteered to talk much about the war, but when he did, he opened up to Cas. Of all his wartime enemies, Dean regretted having to battle Italians the most. Lisa's favorite restaurant had been an Italian one and Dean had come to know more than one pleasant Italian family both in the US and abroad. Since he had been stationed in Sicily and across mainland Italy, Dean had seen more than his fair share of weeping Mediterranean women and children and lost, shattered men. The Italian government may have oppressed their Jewish citizens under Hitler's influence, but Dean had come to regard its citizens as a confused, conflicted, and tortured people that generally rejected Mussolini and the Nazi agenda that strangled the northernmost part of their devastated country. Dean had sympathy for them because the Italians he'd met had been such a tired lot with a history of being subjugated by extremist policies.

Perhaps one day, Dean thought, he would tell Cas more about his experiences abroad. For now, it was too fresh. Dean looked at Cas, thinking he could easily belong to any of the countries of all the languages he spoke. Cas could be anything, from anywhere, and Dean would cherish him all the same - with one exception. "Hey, Cas, would you promise me just one thing?" Dean asked, "Promise you won't learn German."

Castiel could not see Dean's face anymore, but he saw the stillness in his body and understood that the request was an important one. "I promise."

* * *

Dean was eager to establish a workout routine as the other men did, but his injuries posed significant obstacles. He could keep up with Gabriel on the track when his healing cracked ribs didn't bother him too much, but he could not yet join Castiel in lifting weights due to his broken arm. One day, out of sheer stubbornness, Dean decided to try out his good arm.

Unfortunately, his 'good arm' was connected to the shoulder that had been shot. Dean wouldn't let the fact that he was a lump of pain get in the way of doing some pushups. He didn't like the idea of letting his muscles waste away so he got on the dusty ground and tried to do some one handed pushups. At his best, Dean had been able to do around twenty reps on each arm before feeling winded. Today, he struggled with seven and killed himself to get to ten. As soon as he reached his goal, he regretted having attempted to exercise with his damaged body. Dean remained prone on the ground, exhaling miserable, ragged breaths. From his position, he saw a pair of shoes before him. When Dean lifted his flushed face he saw someone new.

The stranger looked younger than Dean, wore specs, and had a vibrant mop of reddish-orange hair. He was pale, freckled, and lean bodied. Evidently, he had a serious staring problem. Dean didn't know how long he had been watching, but he didn't like the thought of being a spectacle. "Get lost, kid."

The youthful male pushed up his glasses and nodded nervously as a blush crept up on his face. As he made a move to slink away, Gabriel's hand clasped down on his shoulder to keep him in place. "Finally! Dean, you met good ol' Charlie!"

Dean shot his eyes to Gabe. "You know this kid?"

"I know everyone. You did introduce yourself, right?" Gabriel turned to the mortified redhead. "Charlie? Rats. Would you settle down? I told you Dean's my pal."

Charlie had a few inches on Gabriel, but none of his ease or self-assurance. The newcomer thought Dean was Intimidating with a capital 'I.' Wounded and tattered beyond all imaging, Dean was still stronger and tougher than Charlie had ever been in his life. Like Dean, Charlie had an affinity for comics. Charlie's comic book knowledge was encyclopedic, and he thought if ever a real person could be like Captain America, it would be Dean. Shaking, Charlie offered Dean his hand after the Winchester was standing. "Charlie Bradbury's the name."

Dean shook his hand and said, "Dean Winchester. Pleasure."

"Charlie joined us while you were in the infirmary," Gabriel explained. It was no wonder Charlie was so timid. He was clearly still in shock of the new life he was living and unused to the sight of ruffians like Dean. Gabriel elaborated, "He's like Cas, a total egghead. He's a tinkerer. He fixed the warden's phonograph and he's working on the reel-to-reel so we can watch pictures again! So be nice to him. Charlie's worth his weight in gold."

Dean nodded and strained to smile. Gabriel always befriended those he believed to be of value and it looked like Charlie was his latest project. "That'll be nice," Dean said, "Having something new to do around here. No point in newsreels without the reel-to-reel."

Dean desperately wanted to hear news about the war because he still had many comrades serving in addition to Sam. Charlie fidgeted and, with more confidence, added, "I've been put on maintenance, so if you ever need somethin' fixed, I'm your man."

Dean's smile widened as Charlie's worth became clear. "Thanks."

Charlie nodded and wandered off unceremoniously, leaving Gabriel to approach Dean with a grin. "I've got more business with you."

"Huh? What kind of business?"

Gabriel led Dean away from the center of the yard and over to the side of the bleachers where they would be partially concealed. He produced a bottle of something from his jacket and Dean perked up, thinking it was whiskey. He was about to be disappointed. "For a price, this potion can be all yours."

"If it's not whiskey, I don't want it," Dean replied and began to move away. Gabriel was always peddling something.

"You're going to want this, Dean-o. It's something more valuable than whiskey," Gabriel leaned in and softly explained, "It's a cure for nightmares."

Dean halted. He hadn't told anyone about his nightmares. "What makes you think I'd need that?"

"If you don't want it, I'm sure I can find other takers."

"What do you want for it?" Dean asked.

"My chores for a week."

"Hell no! Are you nuts?" Dean narrowed his eyes. "It's probably a bottle of piss anyway. Peddle somewhere else."

"Piss? I'm offended! Do you really think I would do that to you?" Gabriel took a sip of the liquid and sloshed it around his mouth. He gargled and then swallowed. "Mm, I feel better already."

Dean regarded Gabriel suspiciously. "Where'd you get that?"

"I got this guy..." Gabriel said shiftily. Noting Dean's skepticism, he drew the Winchester close and pointed out a man in the yard. He was a grave, scowling man with salt and pepper hair that was brooding alone. "Don Stark. He's a genuine witch. He knows how fix up problems regular medicine can't. He made this potion and it's real special, Dean. He might never make another."

"Bull. Witches are broads, everyone knows that."

"Everyone that's got shit for brains. He's the real McCoy. Wizard, warlock, if you want. Why do you think he's locked up? Abusing black magic in a real bad way. Got some people killed. His woman ratted him out. She was a witch too. A backstabber. Donny knows dark magic and the good kind. This potion is some of the good kind. How do you think I know about your nightmares? Don, he told me. And how did Don know? Magic, Dean..." Gabriel wagged his eyebrows, "Magic."

Between Gabriel and Cas, the world was one big mystical place. Dean scoffed, _demons, ghosts, witches._

"Malarkey," Dean grumbled, but was unsettled that his nightmares were common knowledge. Dean had trouble recognizing when Gabriel was being honest and when he wasn't because he was made of half-truths. Dean thought the witch story was an obvious tall tale, but that it was possible the 'potion' could be worthwhile. Dean had once heard there were natural remedies to aid in peaceful sleep, and his nightmares were bad enough for him to consider trying anything.

"I'll lower the price, just for you...because we're such good pals."

"Uh-huh."

"A kiss," Gabriel said softly, catching Dean by surprise. Dean was so alarmed and baffled by the request that Gabriel had to repeat it.

"You want me to kiss you?" Dean stuttered with revulsion. "Why?"

"Hey! Shush! Shut up! I'm bored, that's why. It'll amuse me. Don't look at me like that! I'm still a skirt-chaser... There just aren't any skirts around here... I kind of miss... the romance..." Gabriel muttered wistfully. Gabriel had passed seven years in incarceration and never once stopped longing for his younger years as a womanizer. He missed dancing, smooching, and charming as many women as he could at once. He loved the adventure of a new lay and the charade that came with making a new woman believe she was one of a kind, or, as Gabriel called it, _romance_. Beaten as he was, Dean was still beautiful enough to serve as some kind of a replacement.

Gabriel refused to look at the Winchester because he was thinking about his gorgeous mouth and his enormous emerald eyes that were framed by lengthy eyelashes.

Gabriel's request and the sincerity with which it was proposed, amazed Dean. To even suggest such a thing, Dean knew Gabriel must have trusted him a great deal. He ruminated over the offer. Dean had also not kissed another person in a long while and he thought the exchange was more than a generous deal for whatever elixir was in the bottle. With these thoughts in mind, Dean stole away all the courage he could and grabbed Gabriel's face to plant a hasty, forced kiss on his mouth. Dean shut his eyes tightly, pretending Gabriel was a cute girl, which was almost possible since the man had relatively long hair. Gabriel gasped and responded. Too quickly, it was over.

The first thing Gabriel did was complain. He wiped his mouth and moaned, "_Mon Dieu!_ You call that a kiss? I said _romance_, not whatever that was!"

"Why you little! There's nothing wrong with my kissing! You're the one that just isn't - " Dean snarled and made a sound of aggravation. "One more and you get nothing else!"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and crushed their lips together a second time. Gabriel pulled Dean close and deepened their kiss. He could not believe the Winchester had voluntarily kissed him twice. Excitement of the type he had always wanted filled Gabriel's veins. The second kiss was a marked improvement. Gabriel was a greedy, fearless kisser. Dean kissed Gabriel for longer than he had ever wanted just to show him that he was talented and he knew very well how to sweep a person off her or his feet. _That'll show you_, Dean thought. _Damn Gabe._

When they parted, Gabe grinned like a pampered cat.

"Good practice. Now for the real one," Gabriel said and tried to latch onto Dean again, but his face was blocked by Dean's busted hand. He was pushed away and caught an unpleasant whiff of Dean's dirty cast.

"No! A deal's a deal! Give me the damn potion!" Dean growled. Kissing Gabriel had been like kissing his brother. Unfortunately, Dean knew from experience. The peck he had given Sam had been short, awkward, and never spoken of again. Dean had only kissed one other man besides Sam and Gabriel, and he had been so drunk at the time that he hadn't cared. Kissing men was something Dean was able to do if he concentrated very hard or was under the right circumstances.

"Alright, Romeo. One kiss for one potion. You earned it." Gabriel tossed Dean the bottle and Dean unscrewed the lid to sniff it. The potion had an earthy smell.

"What do I do with it?"

Gabriel made a motion with his hand and said, "Drink up."

Dean took a large gulp, furrowed his brow, and then drank a few more sips. "This tastes like... this tastes like... tea," Dean drank some more of the liquid and his face fell flat. "It is tea."

Gabriel finally busted out into the laughs he had been holding in. Of course it was tea. The sight of Dean's oncoming rage prompted Gabriel to run like the wind, chortling all the while. Dean chased him and shouted, "You rat bastard!"

Gabriel was in such hysterics that he couldn't summon the energy to run fast enough to escape Dean's grasp. He was tackled to the ground where Dean wrestled him angrily. Gabriel wouldn't fight back and that made their wrestling match one-sided and awkward. Gabriel only continued to double up into a fit of hilarity.

"Lying son of a bitch!" Even if Gabriel was an asshole, Dean could not bring himself to really hurt him. Finally, Dean felt eyes upon them and looked up to see a number of men staring, some of them laughing along with Gabriel. Castiel, Edgar the guard, Charlie, and even Death were among the people watching them. Dean could tell from their faces that they had seen more than just their chase and wrestling match. That became the most embarrassing moment of Dean's life.

* * *

Dinner initiated unhappily with Dean and Cas eating their chow in silence. In spite of his reputation, Dean never minded sitting next to Death because Death was quiet and he scared away all the scumbags. Dean sat by Death and Castiel, fuming until Castiel addressed the issue he was having.

"Don't be embarrassed," Castiel said softly, "Gabriel played a similar trick on me once."

At this, Dean lifted his eyes to Castiel's face. He curled his lip at the thought of Castiel and Gabriel kissing and wondered how anyone could trick a person as smart as Castiel. Cas looked away, "Of course it took Gabriel about three years to attempt such a thing on me."

"Hey, Cas. Not helping."

The cause of Dean's fretting boldly set his tray right at his side, to Dean's astonishment. Dean gave Gabriel a sharp, furious look. It didn't even need to be said that he had no desire to be around Gabriel. The incorrigible man smiled at him because he'd been in a great mood ever since their kiss.

"Oh, Dean, _mi_ _amor_," Gabriel swooned. "I'll never forget it. A kiss of true love."

"I'm about to break your face."

"I said we were pals and I did get you a cure for your nightmares," Gabriel replied without missing a beat. He pulled a small bundle from his jacket and set it next to Dean's plate. It was a tiny cotton bag with unknown contents.

"I bet you expect me to suck you off for that. Not gonna happen."

"Whoa, Dean. I'd take it if you offered, but this one's on the house," Gabriel said, "This is what Donny wanted me to give you in the first place. It's a freebie from him."

"I don't want it."

"C'mon!" Gabriel leaned over the table and peered at Dean. He was pushing it and he knew it so he explained the situation honestly, "Dean, Don is two cells down from you. He sleeps as light as a feather and can hear you at night. That's how he knows about your nightmares. You talk in your sleep."

Dean clutched his fork, frowning wretchedly. _First the pie, now this._ Grinding his teeth together, he replied, "What else does Donny say?"

"Nothin'! He wouldn't tell me what you say at night, but it was getting under his skin so he made you this special bag and told me to give it to you. I couldn't resist the opportunity to have some fun. Relax."

Dean was still volatile, but always curious, "What the hell is it?"

"It's a hex bag," Gabriel responded in wonder. He really believed in witches and was mystified by Don. The bag was full of bits of anise and morning glory, but Gabriel preferred to think it was full of magic and only magic. "A good hex bag, I promise. All you have to do is put it under your pillow at night and it'll swallow all your bad dreams."

There was no such thing as magic, Dean thought. He stared at the bag with apprehension and Gabriel sighed, "Just give it a try. It won't hurt you. It's just a little bag of leaves. Word of advice, don't open it. If you do, the magic might escape."

Dean didn't speak another word to Gabriel, but when dinner was over, he took the bag. He told himself he would throw it away after ripping it open, but he never did. That night, Dean sat on his bed and examined the object carefully. He could ascertain that it wasn't full of insects or anything else living that might try to get him at night. The bag did not have an unpleasant odor either. Nobody would see if he used it, so Dean slipped it under his pillow in the dead of night. When he slept, he slept without any dreams.

* * *

After the first night, Dean thought it was a coincidence that he had not had any nightmares while sleeping with the so-called 'hex bag.' But, the second night without nightmares increased Dean's curiosity tenfold. He very much wanted to open the bag, but he was afraid it would stop working if he did. By the third night, Dean decided he didn't care how it worked, as long as it did. So, Donny was some kind of medicine man, Dean reasoned, but that didn't mean he was a witch. Maybe he knew a little bit about herbs that other people didn't know. Dean didn't care to know his methods and he didn't really like Don either. Don disliked Dean less after he stopped moaning at night, but he still refused to talk to him. For a criminal, Don was pretty stuck up. They went on with their lives as they had before, but with more restful nights and nobody ever spoke of the hex bag again.

Dean avoided Gabriel for a few days and went about his work with Castiel calmly. The bags under his eyes disappeared and health returned to his face. Dean's mood lifted and he thought, for once, he was finally living prison life with minimal suffering. His cast would be off next week so he would soon have two free hands. Aside from a small mark on his nose, there was no other indication that Dean's nose had ever been broken. His bruises were gone and his ribs were almost completely mended. He went to bed with less fear and woke up more refreshed. One day soon after receiving the little bag of magic, Dean returned to his cell to see that he had a new letter on his bed. Excited, but nervous, he approached the envelope and read his brother's name written beautifully on the front.

"Sammy," Dean smiled at the paper. He was so happy to touch something his brother had recently touched, in part, because it meant that Sam was still alive. He opened the letter impatiently and read.

_Dear Dean,_

_It's a bloodbath over here. It's a senseless waste. We're dropping like flies. I don't know what to believe in anymore. I can't do this without you. Please write me. I just need to hear some piece of good news from home so I can remember that good things still exist. We lost Balthazar the other day. Balthazar was the best of us._

_Balthazar, Dean. One of the last things he said was that he'd always wanted to 'shag' you. He wanted you to know that. That cheeky bastard died with a smile on his face. He joked until the end. Before Balthazar, I lost Kevin. We promised to watch out for each other and I lost sight of him for a second. I was too worried for my own skin. He's missing now, probably dead, and it's my fault. Even if he's captured that isn't much better. Kevin trusted me and I betrayed him. Everyone is leaving me. I can't have you leave me too. Something is wrong. I know something happened over there and I want you to know that, whatever it is, you can tell me. Bobby won't write me. Jess won't write. Jo won't write. Lisa won't write. Is everything okay over there? Please tell me things are fine at least back home._

_I feel like I may never step on American soil again. Never have a beer with you again. I came into this world killing mom so maybe it's right for me to leave it getting killed. At least I'll finally get to meet her if I do die. But I don't want to die. I want to go home so badly, everyone does. Even Garth won't smile anymore. Some loons are going around saying we're winning this thing, but I don't trust anything anymore. If we are winning… at what cost?_

_I'm not strong enough to do this without you. You've always been stronger and better than me. I wasn't made to do this like you were. The family business of getting scarred and dying young wasn't something I was meant for. Compared to you and Dad, I'm a damn coward. I joined up because I wanted to follow you. Did you know that? I hate to write like this, but I have to tell you the truth in case I don't make it back. _

_I never appreciated you for everything you do. I'm sorry for ever having been a spoiled, selfish brat. You were more than my brother. You were my mother and my father. You're the most important thing I have left and I have almost nothing else. For the love of all things holy, please tell me you still think of me. Please tell me it's silent back home for a good reason. Even if it's not, write._

_Write anything. Everything._

_I need you more than ever before. I need to hear your voice through your terrible handwriting so I won't feel so alone and so scared at night. The only thing I can hear anymore is bullets and bombs. I hear them even when it's perfectly still. I'm so tired. I know you don't like to pray, but will you pray for me? Maybe God will listen to you, because He has stopped listening to me._

_I love you, no matter what. Forever._

_Your little brother,_

_Sammy W._

Again, Dean was reduced to tears. Large, salty dollops trailed down his face and he felt like another piece of himself had died. He may not have deserved freedom, but Dean knew he was meant to be out there with Sam, making sure that he survived the day. There was too much anguish in the letter to comprehend it all at once. Dean settled down into his bed and read the letter again. _Balthazar dead. Kevin lost. Sammy alone._

Dean's fingers brushed over a small square that was still in the envelope. He pulled it out and saw it was a photograph of Sam, Kevin, Garth, and Balthazar. Sam was standing tall and proud in the middle and wasn't wearing any shoes. Garth was giving a thumb's up at Sam's right, holding a bottle of beer in the other hand and flashing a drunken grin. Beside Garth, Kevin was striking a manly, warrior-like pose and appeared to be full of energy despite the bloody bandage wrapped around one of his hands. Balthazar was hanging to Sam's left, saluting sarcastically and cracking a smile like he was at a glorious parade. Dean flipped the picture over and saw 'The Gang' written simply on the back.

At that moment, Dean thought he would gladly murder every prison guard and the warden to get out of prison just to jump on the first plane to Sam. His heart broke at the thought of Sam terrified, hurting, and gradually losing all of his friends. Dean had never before been in a position where he could not be there for Sammy. The eldest Winchester felt so helpless and angry that he destroyed parts of his cell in a burst of frustration. He flipped over his bed, wishing he could transfer his violence upon Sam's enemies – whoever they were.

Sam could die. If he did, Dean would never be able to see his coffin or go to his funeral. He would never breathe the same air as Sam again and that fact filled Dean with a horror unlike the others he had suffered in prison. While things remained maddeningly the same inside, the outside world was ripping itself to pieces.

Charlie passed by Dean's cell at just the wrong moment and beheld Dean in his rage. The young, redheaded man stared and then ran, fearing that Dean had lost his mind. Dean wouldn't leave his cell. He was plotting a way to fulfill his plan to kill the guards to escape. Somehow, he would convince Castiel and Gabriel to help him. The three of them together might be able to do it. They were outnumbered and didn't have guns, but they would find a way. They had to.

Andréal was the first of the guards to investigate Dean after being notified of a disturbance. Naturally, the guard to come to Dean first was the one that most reminded him of Sam when he was younger. They even shared the same first name. It wasn't fair. Dean wouldn't be able to choke the life out of him if he was thinking about _his_ Sam while he did it.

"Dean, do you need help?" Andréal asked. "Are you alright?"

Dean was still sobbing quietly and tried desperately to stop, "I need to get out of here."

Andréal knew what he meant. In moments, Uriel appeared. Uriel tapped his nightstick on the bars of Dean's cage and quirked a brow. "Dean," Uriel said, "You know we aren't going to help you clean up this mess, right?"

Knowing that Uriel had dispatched his worst adversary, Dean hesitated in thinking of ending even Uriel's life, as much as he was a sadistic tyrant most of the time. Dean's poorly thought out escape plan dissolved into nothing and he devised an equally poorly thought out plan in its place. "I need a plane," Dean muttered frantically. He hated flying, but he would fly anywhere for Sam. "I need to get back overseas. You can do that for me, can't you?"

While Uriel laughed a deep, boisterous laugh, Andréal responded incredulously, "You… want to go _back_ to the war?"

"Sometimes I swear you are the craziest one here," Uriel stated.

"I need a plane."

"Well, hate to break it to you, but it ain't gonna happen," Uriel replied matter-of-factly.

"Why the hell not?" Dean smoldered, "I'm going to die here. I might as well die for something. I might as well die over there. It'd be quicker and I'd be outta your hair."

Uriel was unfazed by Dean's despair and vindictiveness. The large guard sighed, "Point is, you don't get to choose where you die. Get your act together, Winchester, or you'll get put into solitary. Clean up this mess. _Now_."

To rattle him, Uriel crashed his nightstick to the bars of Dean's cell. The action and the loud vibrations it elicited were effective in jarring Dean into a state of alertness. Dean wouldn't dare bend to Uriel's will while Uriel was watching, so he did nothing. Dean was obstinately still and thoughtful with his pained inner struggle. Uriel looked up to the heavens, "Dear Lord, please put this boy together before I have to beat his ass. Lock him up, Andréal."

Andréal obeyed and the guards left Dean to wallow alone until he could behave. Uriel's words had a great affect on Dean. Uriel was right; Dean no longer got to choose anything. He didn't get to choose what he ate or what he wore. He couldn't decide when to wake up or when to go to bed. He had a schedule and a routine that was ordained by his calculating overseers. Dean no longer felt human.

Castiel's voice reached Dean after a long while, "Dean?"

Dean looked up from the same spot he had been in when Uriel and Andréal left him. He saw Castiel clutching his bars, wearing an expression of concern. Gabriel was leaning on the bars of the other side of his cell with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look happy and he kept his mouth shut to let Castiel do all the talking. "They told us you were upset about something," Castiel said, "What happened?"

Dean pulled himself up on his legs and wandered over to his bars with the envelope and letter in his hands. He couldn't yet summon words to his mouth so he handed Castiel Sam's letter. Intrigued, Gabriel moved over to read it with Castiel. The war didn't affect Gabriel and Castiel on the same personal level that it did for Dean, but the contents of Sam's letter stirred tremendous sorrow in both men. Neither had ever met Sam, but they both knew he meant the world to Dean.

Quietly, Dean slipped the photograph to Gabriel and Cas. They stared at it and Dean pointed to the Korean boy first, "Kevin. He just turned 18. A boy genius and a sweet kid. He got more letters and packages than all of us combined. We made fun of him, but we were mostly jealous. Mama Tran would scold us in his letters. Tell us to look out for Kevin."

Kevin was everyone's little brother and Mama Tran was like Dean's late father, single-minded in protecting her child. Dean pointed at Garth next. "Garth. Skinny goof couldn't drink a full beer without get corked. He chews with his mouth open and loves hugs. A dentist-turned-soldier. He used to fix teeth and volunteer at schools in his free time."

"Balthazar…" Dean pointed at Balthazar next and worked hard to control the tone of his voice. Dean grinned at Gabriel and said, "You would have liked him. Alcoholic hedonist. He'd sleep with anything that had a pulse. Funny, charming limey. Um, his… his entire hometown got bombed. Obliterated. We were the last of his family because of that god damned Blitz. _Fucking_ Nazis!"

Balthazar's family had been a fraction of the tens of thousands of lives that had been lost in the strategic bombing of the UK.

Dean made a sound of agony and looked down at his feet, sucking in his lower lip. Balthazar was a person that had been so lively that it was difficult to think of him as gone. Dean couldn't comprehend it. He couldn't believe that the world could go on without Balthazar's dirty jokes and shameless flirtations. Dean rubbed his eyes, thinking of all the times he had gotten drunk with Balthazar. They had shared cigarettes and stories, and watched each other's backs every day.

Finally, Dean pointed at Sam.

"My little brother Sammy. All he ever wanted was to go to college. He's afraid of clowns," Dean halted with a dry laugh, "even though he's got clown feet. His feet are so fucking big he can never find shoes in his size. He lost one of his shoes. That's why his feet are so bloody. He's been wearing a pair that's too small."

Castiel and Gabriel looked from the bleeding, sore-covered feet to the handsome smile on Sam's face.

Dean faltered and wiped the corner of his eye. The thought of Sam wearing shoes too small was only one of many devastating things. Dean gripped the bars of his cell and leaned his forehead against them as he entreated Gabriel and Castiel. "What do I write to him?" he croaked, "What do I write Sammy?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 4  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Pairing (Characters):** Dean/Castiel, Gabriel  
**Warnings:** Strong language, explicit sexual content, violence  
**Summary: **Gabriel and Castiel help Dean write to his brother overseas. Depressed and frustrated, Dean picks a fight with Cas.

* * *

A boy genius, a dentist, a pleasure-seeker, and a cherished little brother. The only thing they had in common was that they had no business being at war. There was nothing that could account for the losses and hardships occurring overseas. Yet, their task was to write a letter to Sam that would warm his frightened, broken heart. Gabriel and Castiel had stared at the picture Dean had given them the privilege of seeing long enough to memorize each face and feel like they had known each man at some point. Above the rest, their eyes were drawn to Sam because he was the dearest relative of their agitated friend.

"You sure this is your brother?" Gabriel cut in at last, "He's way too handsome and tall to be your relation."

Castiel thought Gabriel was out of line, but Dean chuckled through his tear-streaked face because that was just the kind of thing Balthazar would have said. Of course, thinking of Balthazar only made Dean think of Balthazar dead. When Dean's face fell, Gabriel reached for him through his bars and pulled him into an embrace. Castiel hesitantly reached his arm out to Dean as well to give him a pat on the back and he let his arm rest over Dean momentarily before drawing it away. Dean didn't struggle and he let Gabriel press him into his body as much as the cold bars between them would allow. Dean was aware of the inherent peculiarity of being held by Gabriel as his cheek pushed into hard metal, but he was too disheartened to complain. Dean needed to be held, although he would never ask to be held.

"Get your room together," Gabriel said quietly through the bars, "When they let you out, we'll come up with the perfect response."

This was the sort of project Gabriel adored. He loved being a part of something that was meant to stir emotions within other people. He was more than happy to be involved in the rallying cry to Dean's dejected little brother. Castiel likewise looked forward to helping Dean because he cared about him and didn't want Dean or anyone connected to Dean to suffer. If Sam was half as incredible as Dean was, Castiel thought he would certainly adore the youngest Winchester as well. Dean pushed his most negative thoughts into the corner of his mind where he hid many other unpleasant, unspeakable things and he set about putting his room in order. He washed his face and wiped it clean until he finally looked almost completely composed.

The guards were satisfied and Dean was lightly chastised before being released. The trio hurried off to the library to set out on their task of comforting Sam. Sam became more than a man and more than Dean's relative. He became a far away idea that none of them would ever see or touch even if he did return safely from the war. The thought that they could influence even one person of the outside world excited Gabriel and Castiel.

"Beautiful Sam. What do we write darling Sam?" Gabriel stroked his chin as he paced around the library, thinking deeply. Having a brother himself, Gabriel knew brotherly love was precious, yet conflicted. Every set of siblings had some manner of rivalry, but when times became tough, good siblings stuck together. This appeared to be especially true for the Winchesters. "Whatever you do, don't mention being in prison," Gabriel said, "Actually, don't mention any of the townsfolk either. You don't know if they might be writing him too. The last thing you want is precious Sam getting conflicting news in different letters."

"I told everyone back home not to write Sammy," Dean said.

Gabriel gave Dean a look that said he believed the Winchester was naïve for thinking he could trust the word of others. "Best not to risk it."

Gabriel's advice was to come up with the sweetest lie possible that could still be believable. The goal was to give Sam some peace of mind, so he couldn't know that the older brother he worshipped had murdered his sister-in-law.

_Dear Sammy,_

_I hope you get this letter. I've written you twice before, but I'm not sure if the mail is reliable these days. Don't worry about us back home. We're all doing great. Everyone says hello and hopes you return safely. I've been busy working hard at the garage and Lisa and Ben –_

"I can't do this," Dean grumbled at the paper. His pen was stabbing into the paper, almost piercing directly into the desk. He felt sick looking at the words he had written.

"This is just the first draft, Dean! We'll edit later," Gabriel replied and Castiel peered over Dean's shoulder to look at the words on the paper.

"No. I can't lie to Sammy. I just can't do it."

Gabriel shot Dean another incredulous stare, "Sometimes people need a lie."

"Well, I can't. God damn it. Of all the things I've done, I'm not gonna stoop to being a liar too, least of all to Sammy," Dean growled. He crumpled up the paper and threw it into the bin where such lies deserved to be. He believed it was disrespectful to the memory of Lisa and to Ben to lie about what had happened to them. Dean couldn't and wouldn't lie.

"Listen, amigo. If you want to cheer up this brother of yours, you have to say something nice. Good luck cheering anyone up with a letter that starts, 'Hey, bro. Killed the wife and orphaned the kid, but everything's a-okay'! That's a recipe for disaster. Don't tell him the truth, for the sake of his sanity."

Dean gripped his pen, sighing hopelessly. He wanted to tell Sam the truth so badly, but he knew he couldn't. Gabriel was right. Things were hard enough for Sam already. Castiel pulled a chair next to Dean.

"Just make it short," Castiel suggested, "Say what you want to say while avoiding saying the details that will disturb him. Just say what's important. 'I love you' and 'don't give up.' Eventually, the war will end. All wars do, don't they?"

Gabriel's eyebrows arched on his face. Castiel may have been technically correct on that point.

_Dear Sammy,_

_I love you. Never give up._

_Your brother,_

_Dean Winchester_

Dean gazed down at the paper. There was something about the simplicity that he adored. All he wanted Sam to know were these two things. No matter what happened, Dean would love Sam and he would want Sam to hang on to hope. In this regard, Dean was a bit of a hypocrite because he had almost no hope left for himself. Still, he would gladly give Sam any positive feelings he had left to help carry him through the war if he could. Gabriel ripped the paper from Dean's hand.

"No! This will _never_ do!" Gabriel hissed and tore the paper in half, disgusted by it. "The boy just poured his soul onto paper. You can never respond with so few lines! Sam bled over his letter. He thought he was going to die! You have to acknowledge his suffering."

"I…I'm not good at that," Dean admitted, "Feelings are Sammy's thing."

"You've got plenty of feelings, Dean. You just have to grow the balls to express them," Gabriel scoffed.

Dean's face turned red. Thinking about expressing his feelings made him sweat. He desperately needed help in this arena, which was the chief reason he'd allowed Gabriel and Castiel to read Sam's incredibly personal letter. Castiel gave Dean a sympathetic look when Dean turned to him for help. Writing people wasn't something Castiel ever did. The only friends he had in the world were in the library with him. Castiel encouraged the Winchester, "We'll help you, Dean. Just write what you want Sam to know most."

In a painstaking process that produced several crumpled sheets of failed attempts, Dean wrote the longest, most emotional letter he may have ever written.

_Dear Sammy,_

_You didn't kill mom, so don't dare think that again. You were just a baby and babies are about the only living human beings that are incapable of hurting anything. Mom was excited about you before you were born and she loved you without ever having to see your face. If she could see you now, she'd be proud of you. Just like Dad was proud of you and just like I am. It doesn't have to be said that I think about you all the time. We're family, for fuck's sake._

_I'm sorry to hear about Balthazar and Kevin. I mourn Balthazar with you. He was something else. But, the last thing he would have wanted would be for you to give up. He was joking till the end to keep your spirits up. That's what he always did. He wanted you to live on._

_Unless you personally handed him over to the Nazis, Kevin was not your fault. There are some things you just can't control. You know as well as I do that there isn't a person with a heart on this earth that could possibly want to leave Kevin to the dogs. I know you and I know you would have done what you could, but nobody is perfect. Kevin trusted you for a reason and so did Mama Tran. Why do you think Mama Tran always wrote that she wanted you to stick by Kevin? She liked you best. She only knew about us from Kevin's letters, but you were the only one she called a 'nice boy.' Kevin must have written some great stuff about you._

_No matter who you lose over there, you'll always have me. You're my flesh and blood, Sammy. I think about you all the time and there's nothing you could do that would make me love you less. I'd hop on a plane right now to get over there if I could, but they won't let me. I'll pray for you and I'll even get all of my friends to pray for you too. Get this, I made friends with a man of the Lord – a real religious type! Ain't that something? Even if Winchester prayers are garbage, his have got to be worth something. I made another friend that's a saucy pain in the ass. How's that for a piece of good news from home? Me, making friends. Who'd have thunk it?_

_The war will end. All wars do. Even if the world isn't the same when it's all said and done, some things will never change. That's you and me. Through thick and through thin, we'll always be brothers. I'm praying for you and your safe return. I love you._

_Your big brother,_

_Dean Winchester_

"I like it," Castiel remarked.

"It's not bad," Gabriel added with a nod as he stroked his chin. He couldn't resist a smirk as he read over the line that read '_saucy pain in the ass.'_ Those words, he decided, should be etched on his gravestone.

_Here lies Gabriel Guerrero de la Cruz – saucy pain in the ass._

"You've all gotta pray for Sammy at least once so it's not a lie. God might be a load of bull, but it's important to Sammy. If I tell him we're gonna pray, we've got to," Dean commanded. He hated religion so much and couldn't believe he was going to go through with a prayer just so the contents of his letter would ring true, but Sam had asked for a prayer and Dean would give it to him.

"Prayer circle for Sammy. Everyone gather 'round, hold hands!" Gabriel announced and reached out his hands to Castiel and Dean. Cas eagerly took Gabriel's hand, but Dean swatted him away.

"Not _now!_" Dean hissed. Holding hands with guys wasn't something he liked. Praying wasn't something he liked. He couldn't combine two things he disliked with ease. Gabriel pried his eye open and eyed Dean.

"Why not? At least this way you'll know we all did it," Gabriel remarked, "It's for Sammy."

Dean pursed his lips together but then resigned to the ritual. He grabbed the hands of the other men reluctantly. "Okay, how do we do this? Do I start? Um… Um, hey, Jesus. Listen up, you son of a bitch – "

Gabriel's eyes flew open. "Whoa, whoa!"

"Dean, no!" Castiel cried.

"What?" Dean glared at the other two.

Gabriel wasn't as knowledgeable about the Bible or as intense in his beliefs as Castiel, but he was a believer, even if it was only by way of inheritance. With a name like Guerrero de la Cruz, Gabriel suspected that he came from a family of crusaders. Faith was important to his family and since family was so important to him, faith also became important to Gabe. He was stunned by Dean's lack of decorum. Gabriel looked up at the heavens. "Dean, my man. You don't talk to the child of the Holy Father like a common thug, even if you are one. Manners, please."

Dean shrugged. "I just want him to get the message. Loud and fucking clear."

"I'll start," Castiel said in frustration and Gabriel expressed approval. They remained locked in their prayer circle as Castiel spoke in a steady tone, "Dear Heavenly Father, please watch over Sam Winchester. Keep him safe from all evil and harm. Give him courage and protect him so that he may carry out his duties. We pray that Sam has food to eat every day and a safe place to rest. May the power of your eternal love guide Sam back home, safely, to all those that love him. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," Gabriel said, hoping with all his heart that Sam would return.

Dean griped Castiel's hand more tightly and ground his teeth together as he pleaded with and threatened God. _You bring Sammy back, you fucker. Bring him back safe. In one piece. I'll never ask for anything else again. Just don't take Sammy. He isn't ready to go yet. If you have to take a Winchester, you take me. Let Sam come back home._ Dean faltered before replying, "Amen."

A single tear had forced its way down Dean's cheek and he hadn't noticed it until he felt wetness on his hand as he wiped his face. Dean couldn't look at either man for a moment, but he muttered his gratitude, "Thanks."

"You want another hug?" Gabriel asked carefully, already positioning himself for an embrace. Gabriel liked touching people and he liked touching Dean especially because he didn't like to be touched. Dean pushed at his chest, scowling.

"No! I don't need a hug. I'm not a baby!"

"Just a little hug. It's okay, Dean. Shhh…" Gabriel said as he held Dean tight. Dean squirmed and Gabriel placed the tiniest peck on his face.

"Cut it out!"

* * *

Dean mailed his letter, but that did nothing to ameliorate the anxiety he felt on Sam's behalf. Prayers and words on paper could only do so much. They couldn't stop bullets or defuse bombs, but they were all Dean had to protect Sam. Dean became so miserable with worry that it showed in everything he did. His moments with Castiel were no longer peaceful. They sat, playing one of their games of chess, when Dean was set off on a particularly bad fit.

"I thought about what you said," Castiel began innocently, "I'm thinking I'll pick up Latin. That's the next language I want to learn."

"Oh yeah?" Dean said as he plotted his next move. "Why Latin? Nobody speaks Latin anymore. Nobody but the Pope."

"Exactly. I want to learn Latin because the scriptures are still – "

"Waste of fucking time," Dean cut him off and gave him such a cruel look that it startled Castiel into silence. Dean wiped his palms on his pants and clutched the material as he seethed. Vitriol propelled itself to Dean's lips, begging to be spilled. "You're so smart. You're the smartest person I've ever met. How can you believe in that bullshit?"

Wounded, Castiel looked down at their game. Faith wasn't something that was easy to explain or comprehend. "It's something I care about. I don't know why I believe, Dean. I just do. It must have always been important to me. The only thing I can remember of my old life is the Bible. Every word of it. It's a sign from God, I know it is."

Castiel was certain he must have been a preacher or a priest before committing his crime and coming to prison because his knowledge of Christianity and the scriptures was unparalleled.

"There is no God, Cas. And if there is, he's a real piece of work…" Dean fumed, which surprised Castiel considering they had prayed for Sam together only just yesterday. Dean raged on, "Fuck him! What is it with you and God? Look around you. Look at the scumbags we live with. Look at _us_ – at the fucking world."

Castiel sat back. He knew there was something hypocritical about a murderer loving God, but he hoped even the worst man could be redeemed. Cas needed to hope that was true because he was afraid he _was_ the worst man. The words of the Bible were more than just words to him. They were powerful and alive. God was so real to Castiel that he thought he could feel his presence at times.

Dean leaned forward to make his case in a dark tone, "As we speak, Hitler is gassing Jews and who knows who else. Tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands… of _people_. We won't know how many until this whole thing is over and someone hands us a number. There will be a number for every bombed town and every lost soldier. But they won't just be numbers; they'll be every human being this precious fucking 'God' has let down. And then everyone will think, 'Isn't that horrible?' But, guess what? It'll happen again. It always does."

When Dean spoke from his experience and from his pain, he made Castiel doubt his beliefs. Cas knew better than to argue with the soldier, so he remained silent, hoping they could continue with their game. The war was Dean's forte, not Castiel's. Cas stared down at the board again, but Dean pulled away his king.

Dean held Castiel's king in his hand, marveling at the white piece with its tiny crown. In a way, this game symbolized so much of what Dean hated about the world. Why should the pawns get thrown away for a man just because he wore a funny hat with a cross? There was a fascination with royalty and Big Men that made Dean ill. People would remember Churchill, but not Balthazar. What was Sammy on a page of numbers? Dean, who so often felt worthless, knew that he was nothing to the world. Then there was God, King of Kings, who was cruel enough to allow his children to suffer immensely and die undignified deaths, only to be forgotten – only to repeat the meaningless cycle.

"Look at this, Cas," Dean said, thumbing the game piece between his fingers. "I could shove this into your eye socket. You could die a bloody, senseless death right now. You know what God would do about that? Not a damn thing."

Dean swatted at the board, letting the pieces fly before getting up to leave Castiel alone. Dean hated so many things at that moment that he wasn't sure what to hate most. He hated God for letting people die. He hated the Nazis for shooting him and threatening Sam and his friends. He hated people that were sitting in peace while the rest of the world burned. He even hated Castiel a little bit for blindly believing in things that helped no one. Most of all, perhaps, Dean hated being locked away where he was no use to anyone. He saw almost nothing good in the world anymore.

Dean thought God could have done so much better. If He was such a loving Supreme Being, certainly He would have crafted a world that was less miserable. He was omnipresent and omnipotent, and yet He allowed people to be raped, tortured, killed, orphaned, and oppressed every day.

_The best of all possible worlds_, Dean inwardly groaned, _This is the best you had to offer?_

Such a God, if He existed, didn't deserve to be praised. Even a criminal like Castiel was above such a heartless overseer. Dean couldn't stand it. There was something perverse about people worshipping a being that cared so little for humanity. And to think that there was a Hell too? There was no way, Dean reflected, that a place worse than their world could exist. It was disgusting to even imagine.

For a long moment, Castiel didn't move. Dean had left him in such a state of despair that he wasn't sure what to feel or what to do. When he truly considered it, Castiel realized that God had never brought him as much joy and comfort as Dean's presence did. Castiel's love for God was sterile and rote, unlike his love for Dean that was emotional and tumultuous. All Castiel wanted was for Dean to know peace and happiness, but it was seeming increasingly impossible. He was aware that his thoughts of Dean were becoming obsessive. Castiel was too eager to do anything for the Winchester and he was beginning to believe those feelings were wrong.

Cas thought it was blasphemous to love a fellow human being more than he loved God. God was perfect and all-powerful. He was the creator of all things, including Dean, and He should be the focus of Castiel's most prevailing love. Yet, only Dean ignited passion within Cas and a desire to live for something. Dean was provocative and extraordinary, without trying. If God was all knowing, then Castiel's feelings for Dean must have been destined. There had to be some reason why Castiel was drawn to Dean and cared so much about him that there were days where little else could occupy his mind. _Why can't I stop thinking about Dean?_ Castiel rested his face on his closed fists. _What do I do?_

"I told you he'd get tired of losing," Gabriel interjected Castiel's thoughts and began to pick up the pieces of the game. Castiel wasn't in the mood to talk.

* * *

Dean was more surly than usual for the rest of the day. He avoided everyone and went to bed angry. His thoughts, more often then not, tended to return to Castiel. By the time he woke up the next morning, he was finally calm and repentant for all the things he had said to his best friend. As usual, he ate breakfast quietly. He was thankful none of the other men favored conversation in the early hours. After, Dean caught up with Castiel in the hall of the second story-corridor on the way to the library.

"Cas," Dean huffed, holding on to the other man's sleeve. Castiel turned to look at him with his characteristically solemn gaze, but was more crestfallen than usual. _Feelings, Dean. Balls to express them._ With considerable effort, Dean apologized as well as he could, "I didn't mean those things I said."

"Yes you did," Castiel answered and brushed Dean's hand away. It was true, Dean's beliefs hadn't changed overnight, but that wasn't what mattered.

"I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry if I did," Dean frowned, making painful efforts to set things right. Even thinking of hurting Castiel's feelings was horrible because Cas was so important to Dean.

"Thank you, Dean, but it's fine. I'll see you at the library," Castiel responded. He walked off without Dean, leaving the soldier perplexed and worried.

"Shit, shit. He's mad at me," Dean hissed and paced around the hall. Dean had never seen Castiel get mad, but he knew what it was like when Castiel was especially gloomy and disappointed. Dean regretted immensely having said something that could provoke sorrow in his friend. He started to walk to the library, trying to think of ways to cheer Cas up, but he came up with nothing. A shot of pain travelled through his arm and he let out a cry of surprise.

Ruby had appeared suddenly to pull on Dean's cast roughly. He was holding the Winchester's wounded limb tightly, thinking of how to break the hand again with the hopes of causing permanent damage. Wounded Dean was Ruby's favorite Dean because he was easier to torment. Ruby grinned his dashing, nefarious grin. "Dean, baby. I missed you. You've been hiding in the library, huh?"

Growling, Dean was ready to punch Ruby in the face, but someone else beat him to it. Ruby noticed the incredible mistake he'd made before Dean knew what was happening. Dean only caught a flash of Ruby's horror before Castiel's fist pounded into his face. Dean watched in awe as a stream of blood trailed into the air. Suddenly, he was watching Castiel crack into Ruby's body with a kind of ferocity that chilled Dean. In that moment, Castiel's face was not his own, but that of a fearless killer.

_Holy shit_.

Ruby tried to crawl away in vain and gargled his own blood as Castiel's hand clamped down on his throat. He was bleeding profusely from his face as Castiel squeezed his windpipe and threatened him. "Alastair isn't around to protect you anymore. Touch Dean again and you die," Castiel warned, "Look at Dean again and I'll put out your eyes."

Castiel's final statement, in particular, struck absolute terror in Ruby. The bloodied man nodded as his panic steadily rose. Castiel was dangerously close to breaking his windpipe and Ruby was starting to go blue in the face. When Castiel let Ruby go, the man made a pitiful sound and trembled as he tried to draw air back into his lungs. As soon as he did, Castiel gave him a swift kick to the stomach, which made Dean flinch as he watched.

Even then, Castiel wasn't done intimidating Ruby. As the sobbing man labored to breathe, Castiel ripped off his denim jacket and used it to wipe the blood from his hands. When his hands were clean, he threw the bloodied jacket over the ledge onto the first floor where men were passing by.

_Holy shit_, Dean's mind screamed again as he watched Castiel. Then, Cas turned to look at Dean with a sharp, frosty gaze that Dean was ashamed to admit was incredibly arousing. Watching Castiel violently thrash another person shouldn't have made Dean fidgety with desire, but it did. Castiel addressed his stunned friend. "Come on. Let's go."

Dean followed Castiel to the library, at a loss for words. Things were beginning to make sense. The library had never been mostly vacant because of the way it was organized. Men avoided the library because they were afraid of Castiel. Only after Dean had started working there did more men begin to visit. The burst of cold, merciless violence Castiel had exhibited also explained Zachariah's shock at Dean's desire to work in this library. Now, Dean realized, Gabriel had never been paying for Castiel's protection as he once thought; Castiel had been protecting _him_ by virtue of being his friend. The face of calm Castiel wore around Dean and Gabriel was not one that was universally enjoyed. The sweetness in him was an anomaly.

Dean inhaled a breath when he realized Castiel was the only other person still alive at the prison that men avoided like they avoided Death. _Holy shit_.

When they reached the library, Castiel placed his fingers gently on the elbow of Dean's wounded arm. He touched him with a gentleness that was in direct opposition to the brutality with which he had beaten Ruby. "Are you alright?" Castiel asked and softness returned to his handsome countenance, "Dean?"

Dean was not okay. He could not be all right after coming to so many revelations in such a short period of time.

Dean had been sexually attracted to one other man in his life. That man had been an army doctor with thick, dark hair and a suave disposition. He had given Dean a bottle of Aspirin and introduced himself, but Dean had been so flustered by the man that he hadn't remembered a word of what he had said. After that day, that doctor became known only as Dr. Sexy in Dean's mind. When his fellow soldiers found out about his crush, Dean became the butt of many jokes.

Castiel blew Dr. Sexy out of the water.

Dean couldn't produce sounds at all. When Castiel tilted his head to the side with a concerned frown, Dean blinked and looked around the library, feeling his entire body swell with heat. He grabbed Castiel's arm and lured him behind the shelves where few people wandered. Castiel was completely baffled until the moment that Dean shoved him into the wall and pressed their lips together.

That one kiss ushered in many following kisses of equal ardor. Dean feverishly kissed Castiel and pushed their bodies together. He tore at Castiel's jacket and moaned when the other man deepened their kiss. Castiel's tongue entreated Dean's mouth lovingly, but he gripped Dean with an aggressive possessiveness. Everything was happening so fast, but Dean had no desire to stop it. When he felt Castiel's hardening member against his body, he purposefully rubbed into it to encourage Cas' lust. Castiel squeezed Dean's ass and forced their bodies closer together as he seared his mouth along his jaw and throat.

Castiel couldn't remember a time when he had wanted to fuck a person more. He hoisted Dean up in his powerful arms and settled him down on top of a desk where he thrust his clothed erection between his legs. Dean whimpered and wrapped his arms around Castiel, needing his touch. Neither man had the spare breath for words, so when Castiel undid Dean's pants to stroke his shaft, Dean only gasped desperately.

Their lips melded together as Castiel brought their dicks together. They shared soft, pleased utterances and sighs when Cas took charge in simultaneously caressing their aching lengths. Dean clawed into Castiel's shoulder with his good hand and arched his body into Castiel's amorous strokes. Dean felt so good he almost forgot they were in the prison library and that any man could walk in and see them together if he happened to need a book in their section.

Dean could not stifle his lusty cry as he neared his climax and the sound of his yearning only further excited Castiel. _Oh my God_. Dean trembled and buried his mouth into Castiel's shoulder. They came together in a wave of elation. Castiel leaned into Dean to rest with him calmly. Relaxed, their lips met again for lazy, satisfied kisses.

The bell they kept at the front of the library rang. Dean stiffened, but Castiel wrapped his arms around his waist. After a moment of silence, the bell rang again. Cas met Dean's eyes and said, "Let it ring."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 5  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Pairing (Characters):** Dean/Castiel, Gabriel  
**Warnings:** Strong language, explicit sexual content  
**Summary: **Dean, Castiel, and Gabriel find new ways of diverting themselves. Charlie notices a difference in Cas and Dean's relationship and Gabriel spies on his friends.

* * *

A fractured mandible, two cracked teeth, four fractured ribs, a fractured zygomatic bone, a bruised throat, numerous lacerations, and a countenance rendered appropriately hideous for its owner occupied Dr. Devereaux in the infirmary following Castiel's show of aggression. These agonies suffered by Ruby were well-deserved retributions, but even they could not equal the pain Dean had endured alone for months. Castiel had acted to the other extreme of the way Dean's assailants had acted—viciously protective instead of harmful—prompting a slew of uncontrollable, elated feelings to erupt within Dean for Cas that were directly opposed to the revile with which he beheld Ruby. Dean had been overwhelmed by the incredible phenomenon of having a protector because he had never been protected before. Thus, kissing Castiel had been unavoidable.

Dean had gained more than a gentle friend in Cas. Dean had gained a loyal ally that would never hurt him and that would go to great lengths to defend him. Dean could never look at Castiel the same way again.

Still, after they had fixed their clothing, cooled off, and parted ways, Dean became convinced that their heated moment in the library was a one-time affair. He thought, perhaps, that Castiel would regard their tryst as a form of compensation for protecting him from Ruby. That reasoning vexed Dean because he had kissed Castiel because he had wanted to. He was stunned when he realized he wanted to kiss Cas again. Insecure, Dean did not wish to ruin the best relationship he had in prison, so he concealed his feelings to the best of his abilities.

At breakfast the next morning, Dean tried to act as though nothing had happened and, in turn, Castiel was as cool as ever, eating in silence. Cas' biscuit was especially hard this morning so he dunked it into his coffee to soften it with cautious precision. Observing Castiel's charming eating habits captivated Dean until Gabriel began to incessantly complain about anything and everything. Unsurprisingly, his ire was eventually directed at their breakfast.

"I would give _at least_ one of my testicles not to have to eat this shit again," Gabriel groaned at his plate. Gabriel had yet to accept that the gruel before him was meant to be some kind of porridge in spite of years of eating the same milky substance. "Who do you have to fuck around here to get some eggs?"

"Gabe. Shut up," Dean grumbled in response. He was irritated because the other man had gotten him to think about eggs. When a man got to thinking about eggs, invariably, he got to thinking about bacon. Gabriel never got tired of complaining about the food and Dean wondered if he would be the same way in seven years.

"I almost got a live chicken in here once," Gabriel reminisced, but then his mien deflated, "Uriel took it away."

Dean didn't have a response to that statement. He simply sighed, continued to eat his factory-produced paste, and hoped the day would pass with more excitement than the typical day.

Dean got his wish in an unanticipated way at the library as he worked to stack returned books into their appropriate locations. Castiel came to help Dean by handing him books since the man had to reach up to the highest shelves to return some of them. Right when Dean thought they were settling back into their routine, Castiel crowded into Dean's personal space and met his green eyes with tender expectations. Castiel looked like a man who was loosing a battle to contain a burning secret and his distressed expression caused Dean to do a double take when he peered down to reach for another book. Because Dean was on a ladder, he did not have a lot of flexibility to move, but he was able to turn to face Cas when he noticed Castiel's fingers brushing along his leg. "Cas?" Dean questioned, "What are you doing?"

The intensity displayed on Castiel's visage should have given his intentions away. Castiel's shy, seductive touch turned into a yearning caress. Dean's body hummed with pleasure from Castiel's contact. When Dean did not protest, Castiel allowed his hand to travel up Dean's inner thigh. Dean almost fell from the surprise of being so intimately touched, but Cas steadied him on the ladder by holding his legs in place. When he groped the Winchester through his pants, the other man cried, "Cas!"

_Right here?_ Dean reddened. _Now? _They were not by the entrance of the library, but they were still out in the open where their privacy could easily be invaded. Castiel didn't mind that fact at all. He began to fondle Dean beneath his pants, stroking him into a state of indecency for their public setting. Dean liquefied against the ladder, resting his backside on one of the steps, and Castiel lowered his head between his legs to caress his now exposed length with his warm tongue. Castiel was attentive in the task, displaying an unexpected degree of skill. Dean's breath hitched in his chest and he knocked over several books when Castiel enclosed his lips around his erection.

_Fuck!_

Dean tried to remain silent, but it was challenging with the way Castiel boldly sucked his cock. Cas' goal was to plunge Dean into a world of bliss where he would think of nothing but how fulfilled he was. Dean's satisfaction would bring Castiel joy. The Winchester became stimulated beyond what Castiel had anticipated. Dean pressed his cast over his mouth, pleasurably astonished by the man between his legs.

Getting sucked off was something Dean had desperately missed. He instinctively thrust into Castiel's mouth with need and was amazed when Castiel was able to accommodate his length. He clearly had experience. Dean was embarrassed, but so excited that he urged Cas on with soft pleas. "Yes," Dean moaned quietly, "God yes."

Of course, at that moment, footfalls entered the library and a familiar voice rang in their ears. "Cas? Dean?"

"Charlie?!" Dean exclaimed in a panic. Castiel didn't stop his ministrations and Dean's heart raced as he heard the young man's feet begin to wander in their direction. "W-Wait!" Dean cried, "Just wait up front!"

Dean muffled a deep moan into his arm, inwardly weeping from the sensation of fucking Castiel's mouth. He was so close to his orgasm that even the threat of being discovered could not motivate Dean to stop Cas. From his low, throaty groan, Dean surmised that the dark-haired man was licentiously eager to bring Dean to his climax. Dean summoned the most level tone he could manage while burning with such passion. "Just wait, Charlie! It'll be just a sec!"

Then, Dean swore, Castiel had the gall to wink.

"I can probably find it myself," Charlie muttered and began to browse the stacks.

"God damn it!" Dean's cry filled the library, freezing Charlie in place. Castiel swallowed Dean's hot release and left him alone so quickly that, if not for the ecstasy coursing through his every cell, Dean might have believed that he had imagined the entire thing. Dazed and panting, Dean heard Castiel deadpan to Charlie from across the library.

"There's a bad spill back there."

Presumably, Dean's mild-mannered bookworm of a friend had a moderately deranged, depraved side. _Who the hell are you? _Dean wondered. The Winchester took a heady moment to marvel at his partner before hastily putting himself back together.

Charlie and Castiel got along together well. At first, Charlie had been apprehensive of the man like he had been with Dean, but he quickly came to understand Cas was a fellow connoisseur of literature. Charlie was possibly the first person to suspect that Castiel was hopelessly in love with Dean.

While Dean had been in the infirmary, Charlie had frequented the library, doing his best to avoid the cold librarian. During Dean's stint away, inmates noted that Castiel was perceivably more disagreeable. His first few weeks in prison, Charlie found that Cas was every bit as hard and aloof as the rumors suggested. Yet, that particular day, when Dean emerged grinning madly from having 'cleaned up the spill,' Castiel exuded palpable warmth. Without having to gaze at Dean, there was a change in the blue of his eyes suggesting serenity. Looking at Dean, Charlie could understand Castiel's affections.

Charlie liked Dean better when he was around Cas too. Dean helped Charlie check out his books and wished him a good day. As soon as Charlie was gone, Dean shot a glance at Cas. "You and I need to talk."

"Is there a problem?" Castiel frowned and Dean walked up to the smug man. Dean pointed at Castiel's chest and opened his mouth to say something, but he was distracted by the other man's gorgeous allure. Dean had dug himself into something deep, he could already tell.

"We're going to talk, but not here. Not in the open!" Dean insisted. And so, Castiel joined Dean in a location that was significantly more private. The storage room of the library was the only place nearby that was not exposed. It was full of extra desks, chairs, and old shelves. The walls were fitted with sturdy wooden shelves that had grown dusty. Dean flipped the light on and paced before confronting Cas.

"You can't just do that!" Dean remarked.

"I thought you would like it."

Dean halted, unsure of where to direct his gaze because Castiel was affecting him more acutely than ever before. "Well, I did." _So much_.

"But you don't want me to do it anymore?"

"Oh, no. You can do that all you want," Dean answered dreamily, but then got serious. "But not in public! Not where people might see. Holy cats, Cas. Is that the kind of stuff you learned at Sunday school?"

Castiel shrugged, unwilling to tell Dean how he'd gained his knowledge and audacity. He enjoyed making Dean come and hoped he hadn't ruined his chances to do it again. "It was our lull time," Cas argued, "I forgot about Charlie."

Charlie was in an out of the library at all hours because he only had to work when something was broken. Depending on the day, he could be completely unoccupied. Dean could not find the will to be upset with Cas. He had enticed Castiel the previous day, and was genuinely pleased to be seduced in return today.

"What about here?" Castiel inquired, "Is this place secluded enough?"

Dean contemplated the relatively spacious storage room and then nodded in approval. "Yeah, I'd say so. This is pretty – "

Castiel pulled Dean into a kiss, glad that they had a sanctioned space where they could carry on as they pleased. He had wanted to kiss Dean for longer than he had ever been aware. When their lips were joined, Castiel knew this was what had been nagging him about Dean. Dean responded energetically, pressing Cas gently into one of the walls. "What's gotten into you?" Dean panted, observing Castiel's sensitive and wanton gaze.

"You started it, Dean," Castiel replied. "You shouldn't have kissed me."

"Like hell. I wanted to. I had to," Dean huffed in return. Nervously, he inquired, "Are we gonna start fucking now? Is that what's happening?"

"Please," Castiel exhaled in response. He wanted to chase the strange feeling Dean provoked within him and he also wanted something pleasant to help him pass the days. "_Please_."

"Well, since you're being so polite…" Dean muttered between kisses and moved his hand down Castiel's body to undo the buttons of his shirt. At that moment, Dean thought there couldn't be anything more rewarding or exhilarating than spurring on Castiel's lust. Cas was so often calm that his carnal urges were fascinating to Dean. In a low, breathy tone, Dean growled, "You're so sexy."

Dean spoke thinking about Castiel's sweet, reserved smiles, his vast patience, his impressive intellect, his bloodied hands, and, finally, his open-air blowjobs. Dean only wished that having sex with Cas could be more convenient. He was unused to men and unused to having to struggle to find privacy. "If you were a dame, I'd bury myself in you so deep…"

He had flashes of fucking Cas on a bed in a house he would never have.

Dean's lips brushed over Castiel's jaw and he moved to suck gently on his ear. Castiel shivered with excitement and felt himself become achingly hard, thinking he would gladly let Dean penetrate him if he wished. Dean's mouth settled over his neck to heatedly kiss and suck over Castiel's quickening pulse as his hand caressed his clothed erection. Castiel made a muffled sound of pleasure, tortured by the barrier of fabric between them.

"I would fuck you so hard you wouldn't be able to walk straight," Dean breathed into Castiel's skin. Regardless of what Dean said, he wasn't thinking of Cas as a woman. He unzipped the other man's fly and took Cas' firm length in his hand.

"But I'm not a woman, Dean…" Cas responded softly.

"I still wanna make you moan, baby," Dean answered. Their lips met and Dean succeeded in his goal as he enthusiastically pumped Castiel's cock. Dean had not felt so aroused from just kissing another person in so long. He lowered his mouth to Castiel's now-exposed chest where he bit his nipple gently. Dean let his tongue, teeth, and lips lavish Castiel's body until the other man was whimpering. Dean dropped to his knees.

* * *

Dean's cast was removed from his hand a few days after their trysts became daily occurrences. Dean and Cas abandoned chess in the afternoons to spend more time with Gabriel, which he appreciated. Gabriel's stories and songs were simple pleasures that could not remind Dean of anything negative. Gabriel, long-time hep cat that he was, thought most things could be fixed with a joke or a tune, and he was mostly correct. Gabriel wrote songs about everyone that interested him, but he also sang covers of the popular songs of the day. He enjoyed serenading Castiel more than anyone else partly because Cas was so comically stiff.

"You're still jealous about that time I kissed Dean, aren't you?" Gabriel joked to Castiel, clueless of how much Castiel had been kissing Dean recently. Gabriel soothed Castiel's supposed wounded feelings with his unique rendition of 'Body and Soul.'

"_My days have grown so lonely… For you I cry, for you dear only._"

Gabe inundated Castiel with long, romantic gazes and passionate lyrics. Dean snorted and Castiel squirmed when Gabriel promised he was Castiel's '_for just the takin_'.'

"_My life revolves about you. What earthly good am I without you?_" Gabriel batted his eyelashes as he sang soulfully. He began to cling to Castiel's leg as he crooned his final notes of devotion to Castiel, "_Oh, I tell you I mean it. I'm all for you, body and soul!_"

By now, Castiel was mostly accustomed to such antics, but Dean was chortling uncontrollably to the side. The Winchester clapped, wearing an amused expression. "Billie Holiday! Beautiful. Just beautiful."

Gabriel took a half-hearted bow, but was, as ever, thrilled to be the center of attention. The fact that Dean appreciated his vocals did wonders for his already massive ego. Objectively, Gabe's voice was warm and smooth like brandy, comforting to the spirit. His proclivity to perform was well complimented by his daring, unashamed personality.

"How come Cas gets all the songs?" Dean wondered out loud. He knew they were surrogate brothers, but Gabriel had a real inclination to sing beautiful, reassuring tunes of love to the blue-eyed man.

"Cas is special, that's why." Gabriel would never elaborate.

Gabriel also liked to play various games, including a particularly sadistic one in which they went around in turn, describing what they missed most about the outside world. Gabriel said it was good for them because it was unavoidable that they would miss things, but it would be less painful if they could miss them together. Gabriel generally missed things associated with his stunted career in music.

They spread out on the grass, looking up at the sky, thinking of all the things they pined for. "The lounge," Gabriel said, "and runnin' booze for the speak-easies."

"Come on! Jesus, Gabe. Why would you miss that?" Dean moaned because his father had gotten into a lot of trouble making moonshine and being involved in bootlegging. Those were horrible times to have an alcoholic father and Dean did not remember them fondly.

"I didn't say I missed the Prohibition. I just miss the excitement of runnin' booze. It was fun. Dangerous. Shut up and give your answer."

"Pie," Dean responded bluntly.

Cas chimed in, "Hamburgers."

Dean and Gabriel regarded Castiel with put upon expressions. Gabriel was the first to nag him, "You already said hamburgers!"

"Well, I still miss them."

"It's a different thing each time, Cas," Dean complained. In fairness, Castiel was not good at this particular game because he couldn't remember a majority of his life. He thought he remembered things sometimes, but it was impossible to tell if his memories were accurate. They gave him a break and moved on after Cas promised to come up with something original the next time.

"The grand piano," Gabriel resumed. Gabriel knew how to play the piano and the guitar, but he missed the piano most.

"Baby." They knew Dean well enough now to know he meant his car.

There was a pause before Castiel said, "Shops."

"Shops?" Gabriel looked over to Cas. "Why shops?"

"I don't remember them well anymore, but I think it'd just be out of this world to be in a place where I could have anything I wanted if I had the money," Castiel mused out loud. "Say I wanted a tie and some milk. Wouldn't that be grand if I could just buy both?"

"Milk! My next one is milk!" Dean cut in.

"All you ever want is food," Gabriel scowled at Dean.

"That's not true! I said the car. My last one was the car."

"You change your answer," Gabriel insisted. "Cas just gave a good one. Nice one, Cas."

Dean deliberated for a moment before saying, "Public swimming pools."

"Oh," Gabriel swooned and smiled lasciviously. "_Yes_."

* * *

The rumor mill worked overtime on the budding relationship developing between Gabriel, Dean, and Cas – especially Dean and Cas. Gabriel liked to be in charge of the rumor mill, but this time, he wasn't. Upset that he had somehow avoided 'being in the know,' he took to spying on Dean and Castiel. Having Dean around considerably improved Gabriel's life and he knew the Winchester also had positive affects on Castiel. Gabriel was invested in discovering exactly what the depths of those affects were. He hid in a concealed nook in the library, flipping through his much cherished collection of pin-up girls as he listened to Dean and Castiel argue and flirt.

The two of them had renovated the library so impressively that even the warden had lauded them on the changes. Castiel and Dean made a good team because they enjoyed each other's company so much and because their individual desires to accomplish things, when combined, were remarkable. Since he had help, Castiel had more time to study whatever he wanted. He was poured over a book of Latin when Dean began to harass him.

"You could be learnin' anything, Cas. You planning to lead Mass?" Dean teased before settling his body against Castiel's desk. Dean loved how Castiel read and absorbed information so quickly and precisely. He was like a beautiful machine, but sometimes Dean wanted to be the focus of Castiel's attention. He regularly needled Cas about his religion, but rarely in that caustic way he had done weeks ago. When Castiel ignored him, Dean tried to provoke him. "You know who else is Christian? Adolf."

At this, Castiel groaned softly. He knew what Dean was trying to do and he was going to have none of it. "He's not a Christian," Castiel responded, horrified that such a man could mar his religion. "Let me read."

Dean didn't move. He peered over Castiel's shoulder, already knowing what bothersome comment he would make next. "You know who else is Christian? The Grand Wizard of the KKK."

"Dean!" Castiel cried. "Please."

Dean lifted up his hands defensively, "Hey, I could go all day. I just think you oughta know the kind of company you keep. Good ol' Protestant puppets burning crosses, scaring poor black folk. All for Jesus."

Ruffled by his incendiary remarks, Castiel set his book down and stared at Dean. As offended as Castiel sometimes became, he inwardly enjoyed being challenged by Dean. He always defended his religion. "False Christians," Castiel answered, "Bad seeds that have no business associating their actions with God."

"Bad seeds? How many 'holy wars' and _un_holy wars is this world going to have to see before it wises up?" Dean scoffed, thinking religion was nothing but poison. He loved Cas the way he was, but if he could change one thing about him it would be his unshaking resolve to cling to his religion. "It's not about bad seeds here or there, Cas. When do you hear about an atheist knocking off some other guy because he wasn't unbelievin' enough? It doesn't happen! The most peaceable people on this Earth want nothing to do with religion."

"Are you saying you're peaceable?" Castiel quirked an eyebrow at Dean and the soldier twitched.

_Nazis don't count_, Dean thought so loudly that Castiel could practically pluck the thoughts from his brain. "I've only ever fought to defend people," Dean asserted. "Myself, Sam, the country." _Ben_.

_Uh-huh_. They had both hurt people and ended lives so perhaps neither Cas nor Dean had any business arguing about morality. In all their conversations, never once had Castiel argued that he was a good person because of his religion. Cas wouldn't dare suggest that he was an upright person at all. Castiel momentarily dwelled on something terrible from his past and hastily redirected their conversation, "We have our separate interests. I never complain when you ramble on about cars… even though I'm not particularly fond of them."

"I don't ramble on about cars!" Dean pouted, but then the core of Castiel's words distracted him. _Cas doesn't like cars? _Dean gasped, "What did you just say to me? How is a person capable of not being 'particularly fond' of man's greatest invention?"

_No, Cas_. Dean secretly reeled because his most popular reoccurring fantasy involved escaping prison and taking Castiel for a ride in his car. He dreamed about combining his favorite person with his favorite past time, driving. Castiel avoided Dean's gaze, scrunching his lips together in a way Dean found to be aggravating. "They don't interest me," Castiel admitted, "On some level, they are impressive, but they're unnatural, loud, and I don't like the exhaust."

Dean loved everything about cars, from their noises to their distinctive odors. Horrified, Dean blabbered, "You've got to be kidding! Who gives a rat's ass about exhaust? Nothing else in the world has ever changed human life more for the better."

The world was a more efficient place because of cars. People got to see the world because of them. In their own right, automobiles were works of art. They were modern marvels. Castiel replied, "It depends on your perspective. As they become more popular, more people will die in accidents. They're not very safe. And all that exhaust has to go somewhere, don't you think? Eventually, every town will be surrounded in a cloud of it. We'll all be breathing it, all the time. Repulsive, by anyone's standards."

_Repulsive_.

"You're just saying that because you know it pisses me off!" Dean grumbled, "See if I ever take you for a drive!"

"That's fine. I can live without it. After all, the last time I rode in an automobile I was brought to this place," Castiel complained, "I do wonder if perhaps it would have been easier for me to escape if I had been transported by a horse-drawn carriage."

"Horse-drawn carriages! No! I can't talk to you if you're going to be like this," Dean moaned and left Castiel alone to his book. As far as Castiel was concerned, it was a mission accomplished.

After hours of relative silence filled only with quiet work and occasional grumbling and sighs, Gabriel peered around his hiding spot to see Dean secretively approaching a door Gabriel hadn't noticed before. _Bingo_. Following a period of stillness, Gabriel descended to the floor to snoop. Seeing that Castiel was also missing, Gabriel's curiosity piqued with exhilaration. Gabriel tiptoed to the mysterious, partially concealed door and gathered a hefty breath before opening it.

His eyes feasted upon a passionate scene. Dean was nestled in Castiel's lap on the floor with his arms wrapped around Castiel as he left ardent kisses on Castiel's lips. Castiel's shirtless body was covered in love marks. He responded to Dean's kisses with a fiery zeal, stroking the Winchester's hard length in his hand.

"_Madre!_" Gabriel exclaimed, his features lighting up with wonder. He flailed and gestured in triumph. "I knew it! I knew it!"

Dean was so startled that his eyes went wide and he made several nonsensical exclamations. It was impossible to look composed or innocent when Castiel's hand was still encasing his dick and when his lips were swollen from their kisses. Castiel wore a steamy expression as he confronted Gabe with his sharp blue eyes. "Get out."

"Of course! Yeah!" Gabriel faltered and left the room. He was so giddy about having found their love getaway that he just had to impose on them one more time. Gabe opened the door again and saw that Castiel had already taken to resuming his adoration of Dean. "I just wanted to say that this – " Gabriel pointed between the two men. "This. What's happening here is very attractive. Wow. Even if I was on the outside, I think I would still find this attractive."

Gabriel openly admired the coupling of Cas and Dean.

"God damn it, Gabe!" Red in the face, Dean shouted, "Get the fuck out of here!"

Unmoved by Dean's rage, Gabriel's mouth hung open. Never before had he witnessed so much handsome in one room. "Can I get an invite?" Gabriel questioned, already making like he was taking off his jacket. Being in between Castiel and Dean had to be a wondrous sexual delicacy, "I want to sign up to be in the middle. Oh, _baby_, am I ever getting in on this."

Castiel and Dean growled at Gabriel, chucking things at him and shouting expletives until the man left. For the third and final time, Gabriel opened the door to the room and peeked his head in. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Charlie fixed the reel-to-reel. Movie night at 8 'o clock!"

"Gabriel! I will kill you!"

Gabriel left at last for good, but he left with the largest grin etched on his face.

* * *

That storage room became a virtually sacred place. Dean and Castiel would spend most of the sexual part of their affair locking lips in that room. After Gabriel's interruptions, they took measures to seal themselves away more securely. They tried to visit the room only when the library was vacant, but sometimes they would find men busy reading or searching the stacks when they emerged. This made Dean rather uncomfortable.

Dean would complain about how dirty and unorganized that storage room was if anyone asked him where he had been and what he had been doing soon after leaving the room where he had been spending moments reaching a climax with Castiel. His need to devise excuses convinced almost nobody because Castiel would exit the storage room a few minutes later, full of satisfaction. Cas never bothered to tame his hair after their escapades, so he often wore a tousled, just-loved look. Although that thick, disheveled hair made Dean drool, it did nothing to help hide the fact that Castiel and Dean were intimately involved. Since they could never kiss or touch in front of others, their time in that room became all the more heated.

The mess-hall-turned-theater provided additional diversions. The first day they had the pleasure of watching films again, Zachariah had praised Charlie's ingenuity and begged the men to treat all the equipment of the jailhouse with respect. Castiel liked a smoke with his movies, partially to curb the anxiety he felt from being unable to touch and hold Dean as he watched them. Cas ached to touch Dean as they sat near each other, but he held himself in check. The films captivated Dean. He thought they were greater than books and he wished he could take the movies with him everywhere.

Newsreels never brought him the comfort he had believed they would. Whenever he watched news of the war, Dean scanned every face he saw obsessively, thinking he would see Sam on the film one day. The newsreels painted world affairs with a glossy brush that made Dean feel ill. His soaring nerves rendered him still when he watched them because he hadn't received a letter from Sam in a long while. Sometimes the news of the war would ruin Dean's ability to enjoy whatever film was played after. Dean was particularly affected by news of the landing of British and American troops on the beaches of Normandy.

The return of news to the jailhouse stirred many conversations among the men in general. At supper one day, even Death communicated a prediction about the war. "Hitler is going to die," He said, "Soon."

Gabriel, Castiel, and Dean focused their eyes on Death because he rarely gave his opinions. When he spoke, he spoke with a weight that they respected and took seriously.

"Soon isn't soon enough," Dean muttered back and Death turned to him, observing Dean with placid, reserved fascination. Dean's angst about the war was so deep that it was possible it was starting to affect Death. The humorless man spoke words meant solely for Dean.

"All men die exactly when they are intended to die," Death told Dean, but he had turned his eyes to Cas to give him a pointed stare. "His time is coming."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 6  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing (Characters):** Dean/Castiel, Gabriel  
**Warnings:** Strong language, sexual content  
**Summary: **Dean receives welcome correspondence and a warning. With Charlie's help, Cas tries something imprudent.

**Disclaimer: **Smoking is not good for you, but I'm about to sexualize the hell out of smoking in this chapter.

* * *

After hearing of the news of the war fomenting in France, Gabriel kept to himself more than was typical and stopped singing. Dean knew that must have been because he was thinking of his many family members that were still abroad. Havens in Europe were few and far between, if they existed anymore. With Gabriel lacking in energy, the prison became a grayer, gloomier place.

Gabriel still told stories, but they had taken on a nostalgic, morbid bent. Dean learned that Gabriel's family was from the Basque region that overlapped areas of Spain and France because there was a cake from those lands that filled Gabriel's dreams. This cake, known as the _gâteau basque_, was described as a decadent dessert with an almond-flavored body that was impregnated with delicious cream or fruit jam. It was buttery, sweet, and perfect. Gabriel claimed that he could eat it morning, noon, and night. He desperately wanted to bite into such a cake, allowing his lips and tongue to be saturated by its filling. Simply, Gabriel wanted that cake and the love of a stranger. He wanted Dean, Castiel, Charlie, and the entire world to eat Basque cake and share a kiss.

Instead, the beaches of the native soil of his relatives that he had visited as a boy were being colored red with blood. Scarlet agony was drifting into the blue waters as they remained in their distant prison. The thought of men floating off into the ocean and being buried into the sands struck Gabriel as being particularly grotesque. A beach was a like a café or a jazz club – a sacred place to be enjoyed completely divorced from any threat of violence.

His stories became characterized by carnage. Instead of eating his cherished Basque cake in peace, Gabriel recounted a story of how Spanish bullrings had been used to massacre humans instead of bulls. From his fanciful lips, such a story sounded like a cruel exaggeration, but it wasn't. The morbid imagery of people being gathered into a bullring to be shot by firing squad was one Dean hadn't been able to forget. Gabriel said these were the types of stories that were not meant to be forgotten. They were the stories that Gabe felt deeply because they painted the reasons why he could no longer visit his relatives overseas. The bloody Spanish Civil War had only made way for the beginning of the dictatorship of Franco that ushered in a new era of thousands of civilians to be murdered, starved, and oppressed.

Gabriel never said it, but it was obvious that he was worried that his family overseas was thinning out from either the war raging on in France or the tyranny in Spain. In particular, he was worried about his older brother, Lucien, who he only described as 'rebellious' and 'hotheaded.' Lucy, as he was sometimes affectionately known, had estranged himself from their parents, Gabriel, and his brothers many years ago, electing to live in France out of spite. The ocean between them and the fact that Lucy never wrote to anyone didn't stop Gabriel from worrying about his brother.

Dean empathized with Gabriel because Sam was in the middle of the bloodshed too. Right when Dean was beginning to become unbearably nervous from the lack of correspondence from Sam, he was inundated in mail. He received a thin package and two letters on the same day. 'Bobby Singer' and 'Sam Winchester' were the most marvelous names he could have expected to read that day. Dean didn't know which letter to open first, but settled on Bobby's because Bobby had never written before and his letter came with the slender package.

_Dear Dean,_

_I've been wanting to write you ever since you got carted off. I've been racking my brains trying to think of what to say to you and I finally wrote this letter. I've tried to understand what happened, and I just can't. I even got to looking up cases like yours to try to figure it out. While I was researching, I got in contact with a man by the name of Rufus Turner that thinks he might be able to help, maybe even come up with some new evidence to make an appeal. He's a private detective that specializes in unusual homicides and he's coming down from Vermont to meet with me. I'm searching for an explanation for what happened because I refuse to believe you would ever hurt a person without a damn good reason. I know you're a good boy. You always have been even if you are rough around the edges. I want you to know I'm thinking about you. A lot of folks are, but me especially. You and Sam are like my own and you always will be. _

_It's not good for an old man's heart to see you boys off at war and locked away. I hope this letter and the package will bring you some comfort. _

_I've been taking care of your car. I keep her clean, polished, and running like a dream. Sometimes I park her in front of the house so she can be admired like she's meant to be. When I don't have the space, I park her safe in the back. A couple of guys came around asking to buy her and I told them to go to hell. They thought they could get a steal on her on account of you being put away. Can you believe these idjits? I'm thinking Sam will take her whenever he returns from the war. I've got to tell you, people around here are dying to write to Sam, but we haven't out of respect for your wishes. How long do you expect us to go on like this? It ain't right to leave a boy without any word from home while he's off at war. Jess wants me to ask you if we can write to Sam as long as we don't mention you and your case. I tell you Dean, that little girl is fixing to lose her mind. _

_I also wanted to write you to let you to know that Ben is staying with his aunt and is being well looked after. You meant a whole lot to him, so it's been hard, but the entire town is taking care of that boy. Everyone was broken up about your trial and a lot of folks are just now going on their business like nothing happened. It's all an awful disgrace. Everyone knows things aren't the same without you. I had to hire some kid to take your job and he knows half of what you know. He gets under my skin, but mostly because he isn't you. _

_I'm real ashamed that it took me so long to write you. If you need to talk or if you need anything, I'm here for you. _

_Always, _

_Bobby Singer_

Dean tore open the slim envelope that accompanied Bobby's letter and saw some brand new magazines about the latest automobiles. Dean beamed at the bound sheets of paper, filling with excitement. When he flipped through one of the magazines, another sheet of paper spilled on the floor along with a beautiful, familiar photo of Betty Grable.

The note read: _Enjoy your girls._

"Bobby!" Dean grinned, face flushed. He put Betty up on the wall, where she smiled her sweet, angelic smile upon him. She had followed Dean to war and it was only right that she should comfort him in his cell. Her white, bright teeth, her golden locks, and long legs symbolized a paradise that Dean was sure didn't exist. Yet, looking at the idol lifted his spirits. Betty watched as Dean tore through Sam's letter.

_Dear Dean,_

_Thank you for the letter. I was so happy to hear from you and to hear that you're doing well and making friends. Your friend Gabriel is a swell guy. I got his present soon after getting your letter._

"What?" Dean shouted at the paper in his hand. He'd never mentioned Gabriel by name. _I got his present? _Dean gawked at the letter and read on.

_The shoes are great and I'm guarding them with my life. Getting your letter and a pair of good shoes means the world to me. I'm writing Gabriel back, but please let him know how much I appreciate the shoes. I haven't written you in a while because things have gotten crazy over here. We hit a mine. Garth got injured something awful and has to have surgery on his arm. I think he'll be okay. He's keeping his spirits up. It's wild how such a small guy can contain so many guts. I'm thankful to God that he's still alive. I think he's going to get sent home. If he does, I'm going to miss him._

_Did Jess get another fella over there? You can tell me the truth. I can handle it. I'm guessing she doesn't write to me because she doesn't care for me anymore. She used to write me such sweet words, but she doesn't anymore. I'm afraid I scared her away. I might have written some things to her I shouldn't have. I really thought we could get married some day. She's the best gal in the world and I would be a fool to lose her. Can you talk to her for me, please? If she doesn't want to write me, I understand._

_I hope my last letter didn't upset you too much. I'm sorry you had to hear about Kevin and Balthazar like that. You're right, of course. I need to keep going on, not just for Balthazar. I'll keep fighting for you. I'll keep going on in hopes of being able to see you again. I dream about the convertible and sleeping in a house that hasn't been blown to bits. I miss real food. Most of all, I miss you. I'll do everything I can to come back home, I promise._

_How is your shoulder? I hope you are still in good health. I'd like to hear more about your new friends, especially the preacher. It's amazing that you of all people found a friend in a man of the cloth. He must be very interesting. When I get back I'd sure like to meet him and Gabriel. Take care of yourself, Dean. Give my love and kisses to the family._

_With Love,_

_Sam Winchester_

Dean wrote Bobby and Sam back immediately. He encouraged Bobby to tell Jess to write Sam under the condition that she wouldn't say anything about him. Dean wrote kind words to Garth in his letter to Sam and gave a brief account of all of Castiel's finer points without being specific about his history. With all of these things accomplished, Dean hurried over to Gabriel's cell, intending to give him a piece of his mind. Dean found Gabriel loafing about with Charlie.

"Gabe! What the hell are you doing writing to Sam?" Dean barked, "You're writing to Sam, aren't you?"

Gabriel tried to put on an innocent face, but he caved in when Dean described the letter he'd just received.

"Of course I'm writing Sammy."

"Don't call him that!" Dean spat, "Only _I_ call him Sammy!"

"Psh. I'm just supporting the troops. I felt compelled to write him something truly inspired," Gabriel said, "Don't worry, I didn't tell him you were in the can. I only told him nice things."

Dean fidgeted on his feet. "He said you sent him shoes. How the hell did you send him shoes?"

"Dean, my friend. You think I don't got people on the outside? I had a friend of a friend send him some. I couldn't stop thinking about those enormous feet." Gabriel grinned. The first letter he had written to Sam had been brief and asked for his precise measurements. Upon receiving the numbers, Gabriel had been astounded that such proportions could exist. Naturally, he got to wondering if all of Sam was equally large. "Such large feet deserve magnificent shoes. Anyway, I like writing Sam. It's romantic to write to a soldier overseas."

"You think everything is romantic!" Dean groaned.

Dreamily, Gabriel sighed, "I told him I was a tailor-poet-singer-shoemaker and that I met you when you came to my shop to buy a new suit. It was such a sweet story. He liked it."

"How many times have you written each other?" Dean frowned.

"Not telling." Gabriel winked. "Turns out the way to a soldier's heart is with a pair of new shoes."

"Well…He did like the shoes. Thanks for that," Dean remarked sheepishly, "He said to tell you he appreciated them."

"What else did he say about me?" Gabriel perked up and edged to the side of his bed.

"Nothing." Dean shrugged. "Oh, well, he said you're a swell guy."

"Really? I want to see!"

"No!" Dean hissed and disappeared before Gabriel could pester him more. He would have told Gabriel not to write Sam anymore, but he knew it wouldn't make a difference. Dean wasn't enthused by the thought of Gabriel intending to charm his innocent brother from afar. At the same time, he knew Sam was in dire need of kind words from the US. In the end, Dean could only be thankful that Sam was alive and had new shoes.

* * *

The light of the library storage room seemed warmer than the lights of any other location in the prison, although there was nothing particularly extraordinary about the bulbs hanging overhead. The orange glow illuminated the sweaty, relaxed bodies of Dean and Castiel as they rested in their secret alcove.

"Exhaust," Dean muttered as he took respite in Castiel's arms in nothing but his olive drab underpants. Dean's freshly mended hand was lying on the cloth that loosely covered Cas' leg. Dean could feel Castiel's bare chest rising against his back and then falling with his exhalation of cigarette smoke.

"Hm?" Castiel was so comfortable and cozy with Dean settled in his lap that he didn't have the will to form a complete question. Cas nuzzled his face gently against Dean's short hair before lifting his cigarette to his lips again to give it another needy suck.

"You smoke every day. That's just another form of exhaust, isn't it?" Dean said and lifted his green gaze to Cas' satisfied face, "You said you didn't like exhaust."

"It's not the same," Castiel smiled and let the smoke from his lips seep into light gray curls away from Dean's face.

"It's worse!" Dean's eyes widened. "Because that's going directly into your lungs! Exhaust from cars just goes into the air where it can't hurt anybody."

"It's not the same. You can't compare them," Castiel reasoned, "Exhaust from cars is mechanical, man-made. Tobacco is natural. Smoking is good for you, everyone knows that."

"Bull. Shit."

"Smoking keeps me warm and happy, just like you," Castiel answered tenderly and brushed his fingers over Dean's handsome face with love. He touched the Winchester's lips and passed his smoke to his beautiful, obliging mouth. Dean liked to share whatever he could with Cas since they owned so little between them. Their post-coital cigarettes were among the most blessed things they had to share. As expected, Dean drew a pleased drag. Castiel was engrossed by the way Dean's eyelids lowered and the way he unknowingly caressed down his leg as he borrowed his cigarette.

"The doc smokes," Cas said softly, not really focusing completely on their conversation, "If smoking was bad, the doc wouldn't smoke."

"Yeah. He also drinks like a fish and is as blind as a bat. Frank ain't a model of perfect health. You don't give a shit what the doc does. Anyhow, it's logic. Putting smoke straight into your lungs has to be worse than breathing a little bit in the air. If one is bad, they're both bad. Smoke is smoke is smoke." Dean paused. "Just admit it, Cas. If smoking doesn't bother you, exhaust can't bother you."

"What is this all about? Are you that hurt about what I said about cars?"

"You don't hate cars," Dean said firmly, narrowing his eyes, "Fess up."

"You don't hate Christians," Castiel answered, tilting his head and wearing a self-satisfied smile.

"Son of a bitch."

Castiel brought their lips together, enjoying the hot combination of his addiction with his most cherished man. The taste of nicotine on Dean's tongue had a treasured place in Cas' heart. He only pulled away from Dean's mouth to keep his cigarette from going to waste. Wasting anything, especially a cigarette, was unfathomable to Cas. His gaze was serious as he addressed Dean again. "You don't hate Christians, do you?"

"You ass. Is that what you think?" Dean responded, but promptly noted the worried expression Cas wore, "Of course not. Mom was Christian – the best kind. I don't hate Christians. I just hate religions and what they do to people. A lot of people…not Mom."

He would have said 'not you,' but Cas was serving time for a crime so awful he never talked about it.

Dean took another pull from the waning stick of tobacco. Thinking about his mother raised Dean's spirits even though she was dead because his mother had been one of the only indisputably good things Dean had ever known of the world. "I went to church, Cas. We only ever went because of Mom, but it still counts. And after she died, Dad didn't stop taking us. It meant a lot to her…"

Castiel smoked as Dean told his story, keeping his free hand pressed on the heated skin of Dean's abdomen. Dean could have said anything to Cas in that moment and Cas would have loved it. In return, Dean always felt safe and at ease in Castiel's presence in spite of whatever darkness his friend contained. There was not a story more revealing or personal Dean could tell Cas than the first story he had ever told him so he felt secure revealing other things to Cas. Dean shared memories from his childhood like it was only natural that Cas should know them.

"It was funny 'cause Dad was like me. He thought it was total bunk but he took us anyway. Sam is the only one that really took up believing like Mom, but even he fell asleep at church," Dean grinned at the recollection of Sam drooling in church and of Sam hiding novels in Bible covers. Dean whined, "It's so god damned boring, Cas. Why do preachers do that – make God as exciting as watching paint dry?"

"I don't know. I've always preferred studying privately," Castiel responded, drunk from Dean's closeness.

"Mom was the best. Even I didn't mind all that malarkey when Mom went on about it. She really loved angels," Dean reflected far back to a time before he'd ever been hurt by anyone. He found it hard to believe there had ever been a time when he had lived in innocence. He was glad that his mother had not lived to see what he had become. She had only known the best of him. Wistfully, Dean said, "Every night she said that angels were watching over me."

_What an idea._ Dean smiled even if the only angel to ever watch over him had been his mother.

Cas loved when the Winchester shared pleasant stories because he so often dwelled on everything that was wrong with the world. He understood that much of Dean's greatness must have come from the gentle woman that had raised him. Dean's retelling of his life painted his father harshly and his mother beautifully, leading Cas to suspect that Dean likely resembled his mother most. With the cigarette extinguished, Castiel could use both arms to draw Dean close. "I don't hate cars."

"I knew it." Dean looked at Cas with affection. "Nobody hates cars."

Castiel pressed his lips to Dean's face and neck.

"You know, that's the first thing I'd do if we were free…" Dean began, which made Castiel sigh. They were never going to be free, at least not together.

"I'm going to die here," Cas replied softly to the Winchester's ear, hoping Dean would take his cue and shut up about being free.

Dean ignored him. "I'd take you for a ride in my car. Anywhere. Then we'd fuck in the backseat like people are meant to do."

"You wouldn't fuck me outside of these walls," Castiel chuckled. Inwardly, he felt sad because Dean's fantasies were just fantasies, and Cas was certain he only got to hold him because Dean had no better option than him. Cas had no idea how much it pained Dean that he was unable to show Cas the car he loved so dearly.

Thoughtfully, Castiel trailed his finger over the bullet wound on Dean's right shoulder with incredible delicacy. The skin surrounding Dean's injury was marred and still pink because it had been torn open anew several times since he'd been in prison. Dean flinched and Castiel apologized, unaware that he had been stroking such a sensitive part of his body. More than anything, Cas was sorry he couldn't turn Dean's mutilated flesh fresh and new. "Does it still hurt?" Castiel asked.

"I notice it most in the morning or when it's cold, but it's not too bad," Dean answered. Dean would never complain about having been shot or about having gone off to war and Cas found that remarkable. That bullet wound was an emblem of many things he loved about Dean. Dean was the man that threw himself in front of a bullet, expecting to die, to protect his brother.

"I would fuck you outside of these walls," Dean whispered. "Especially in the car, but anywhere else too."

* * *

Dean was mopping the floor of the library to a beautiful shine when a man approached him full of anxiety. It was Crazy Martin who had been known to the world as Martin Creaser before he had assaulted a couple he had believed to be vampires. Martin didn't belong with them, Dean thought. Dean was sure the twitchy, elder man needed to be in the care of a hospital, but mental hospitals were scarce and, because he had a history of violent crime, Martin was locked away with them, without a single doctor to ease his agitated mind. Martin beckoned Dean with a hand, nervously looking from side to side.

"What is it, Martin?" Dean asked in a normal voice, partly because he knew it would alarm the man. True to expectations, gray-haired Martin gasped and brought a finger to his lips to urge Dean to be quiet. He edged toward Dean and slipped a piece of paper into his hand. Curiously, Dean unfolded the paper.

_DON'T TRUST CASTIEL._

Dean gave Martin an irritated glare and the man responded by shuffling through his pockets for another piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote messy scrawls on the paper, using his hand as a writing surface. When the second note was written, Dean read the following words:

_The Chicago Trib_

_Feb. 4__th__ 1932_

_He's not human._

Angry and insulted before anything else, Dean growled, "Do you need a book or what?"

Castiel emerged from several rows of shelves down and waved when he saw Martin beside Dean. When he spoke to him, the frayed older man turned a few shades lighter. "Hello, Martin."

"H-Hi…" Martin trembled. Looking at Dean, he said, "You're a good patriotic American, son."

Martin exited rapidly, leaving Dean upset and puzzled. _Fucking geezer_. He stuffed the wads of paper into his pocket and sighed. Castiel called out to Dean. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Crazy Martin being Crazy Martin." Dean went back to mopping, but considered Martin's warnings and the date he'd been given. He thought about showing the slips of paper to Cas, but Charlie came running in, needing help. Dean pushed the notes out of his mind, figuring he could address them later.

Charlie didn't read books, he inhaled them. He came by more often than anyone else. Today, as usual, he had a list ready. Dean and Cas divided the list up to find everything Charlie wanted.

"What's _The Hobbit_?" Dean asked as he organized the man's stack of books.

"Only one of the best books of the last decade," Charlie answered smugly, "I've already read it, twice."

"Then why are you reading it again?" Dean grumbled, "Get a new book!"

"I like it. It's one of my favorites."

Dean turned the book over in his hands. "What's it about?"

"A hobbit," Charlie replied with a considerable amount of sass.

"Well, I figured. But, what's a hobbit?" Dean scrutinized the object in his hand and scanned a few pages of it.

"A hobbit is a little person with hairy feet."

"_That's_ what this thing is about?" Dean gawked. "He's the hero? A hobbit?"

"Just read it." Charlie rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend how Dean could be so ignorant of such a masterpiece. "I can come back for it in the afternoon."

"It's good," Castiel assured Dean.

Dean trusted Cas enough to forget the words Martin had given him again and instead spend the rest of the day reading _The Hobbit_ spread out on a desk. Dean used other books as a pillow and reclined like he was on a sofa as he flipped through Tolkien's work. As he read, Dean made a point of complaining that he was too much of a grown-up to enjoy a fairy tale.

"You're too grown up for hobbits, but not too grown up for comics? Okay, I'll write that down," Castiel teased only to receive an indignant look from the man sprawled out on the desk.

Dean almost put the book down halfway through the first chapter, but he wanted to find out what the big deal was, so he read on. The more he read, the less he talked. He liked the fact that the book had a dragon and was surprised when it took a warlike turn. The book had more action than he had expected. Some of it he loved, like the defeat of many mythical creatures, but other parts he found hit too close to home. Naturally, the book ended with some of his favorite characters meeting terrible ends. He hadn't expected to find himself so attached to dwarves. Charlie returned as Dean was stuck in a Middle-Earth reverie. The redhead sat down by the Winchester.

"Well?"

"Well. It was okay," Dean answered, still feeling above showing open enjoyment of something so fanciful and written for children. "There was too much singing in it. And all of the names were hard to remember. Why can't they have regular names, like Bob?"

"That's all you took from it?" Charlie raised a brow. "Bob? Bob the Hobbit? You think they all should have been named something like Bob?"

"Well, there's twenty different dwarves in this thing and not a single one has a normal name, like John."

"There were thirteen! Did you even read it?" Offended, Charlie took the book from Dean's hands.

"It was alright!" Dean said, "I liked the brothers… and the part with the creepy guy in the cave. Go – lam? Smeag-what's-his-face. It wasn't bad for a kid's book."

"He liked it." Castiel translated. "I think I saw him cry."

"No I didn't!" Dean blabbed and rolled off the desk. He made like he was going to clean something, but wasn't sure where to begin. "It was _okay_ is all I'm sayin'. So shut up. I've got work to do."

Charlie held the beloved book in his arms and focused on Cas as Dean busied himself. "I finished that thing you asked for."

"Good. Thank you," Castiel replied.

"It's going to be amazing. You can say or play anything and everyone will hear, but – "

"What thing?" Dean cut in. He looked at Cas and Charlie, but Cas seemed reluctant to let Charlie say more. Castiel exuded an ominous vibe that prompted Charlie to leave. "Thanks for the book," Charlie said, "Later, fellas."

"What thing?" Dean repeated his question. "Cas?"

There was more than one reason why Castiel had wanted to learn Latin, but he hadn't been willing to tell Dean all of them. Finally, he realized it would be best to explain. "I'm going to perform an exorcism," he said.

Dean only responded by laughing at Castiel. Such a ridiculous notion deserved to be the subject of mockery. Quite serious, Castiel elaborated, "Charlie set up a line into the intercom system where I can say anything and the entire prison will hear it."

"You're serious." Dean's face dropped. "Why would you do that? They'll put you into solitary!"

"I have a theory I want to test," Castiel said.

"What theory?"

"Demons. I know they exist. They have to, and I'm going to prove it," Castiel began, which made Dean extremely uncomfortable. Dean disliked talking about anything related to the supernatural, but especially those things related to his case or demons. Of course, Cas wanted to prove demons were real for Dean's sake. "If any place is bound to have demons, don't you think it would be here? Among criminals? So I'm going to exorcize everyone."

"You're really pissing me off, you know that, right?" Dean walked away from Cas and set out to angrily dust everything in sight. First, Bobby in his letter had to suggest there was more to his case than meets the eye, and now Cas _again_, refused to believe Dean would do something horrific without a reason. There was nothing that could justify his crime. Dean thought Bobby and Cas both needed to wake up and accept that he was simply a rat no better than any other murderer. There weren't any demons and there were no excuses to be made. Only bad people.

"It's worth a try," Cas said, "I found an official exorcism, sanctioned by the Roman Catholic Church. The Rituale Romanum – "

"Don't you fucking even start."

It was bad enough knowing that he'd killed his wife without being reminded of the madness he'd believed during and after his crime. Dean regretted having told Cas his full story when he had been in a moment of weakness because Cas believed in him. Dean also regretted having told Cas that he still thought of Lisa almost every day. His guilt could never disappear and it was his fault that Cas was trying to do something about it to make him feel better. Dean was incensed because, even if the exorcism worked, it would be several months too late to save Lisa.

"It's fucking stupid is what that is," Dean grumbled into the rag he was using, desperately hoping that Castiel would change his mind.

The next day, however, words in Latin rang enigmatically from every wall in the institution. Dean was expecting them because it was right after lunchtime and Castiel hadn't joined him in the library. He clenched his jaw in rage and had a strong desire to break something.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_…"

"You fuck!" Dean shouted at the walls, knowing Cas was somewhere about to get himself into serious trouble. "You idiot!"

"_Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio…"_

Martin froze in the yard, listening to words spoken in the voice he feared. Castiel had an otherworldly power that stilled Martin's blood when he heard him speak the foreign incantation.

_"Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio…"_

"What the fuck is that?" Miggs Masters groaned to his fellow inmate as he hedged some bushes. "Is that Latin?"

_"Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica..."_

Death sat up on his bed, recognizing Castiel's voice immediately. He listened to the words with interest.

_"Ergo draco maledicte…"_

Gabriel had stopped mopping the hallway he was in to listen to the exorcism. He rested his forehead against his mop, praying silently that Uriel wouldn't find Cas and beat him. _Please, God, anyone but Uriel_. Gabriel's lips cracked into a smile and then a full laugh when he thought of what the warden's face must have looked like as he listened to the words.

_"Et omnis legio diabolica_, _adjuramus te."_

Edgar the guard got the message to scour the entire prison for whoever was disturbing the peace. All the other guards got a similar message and were disturbed by varying degrees by the contents of the chants.

_"Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,_

_eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare._

_Vade, Satana, inventor et magister_,  
_omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis._  
_Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,_  
_contremisce et effuge, invocato a,_  
_nobis sancto et terribili nomine,_  
_quem inferi tremunt."_

Uriel and Andréal ran past Ruby, shouting urgently at each other because Zachariah was furious. Castiel was hidden away in an infrequently used room and showed no fear when the guards opened the door. By the time they found Castiel, he was finishing his exorcism with the precise execution of a brilliant scholar.

Defiantly, Castiel chanted, "_Benedictus deus. Gloria patri."_

An excruciating, mechanical screech was heard across the prison as the microphone was torn from Castiel's hands.


	7. Chapter 7

**Warnings:** Strong language, self-harm  
**Summary: **Castiel receives a harsh punishment that forces him apart from Dean. In his absence, Dean investigates Castiel and Charlie and Gabriel attempt to keep Dean company. Meanwhile, Cas contemplates his guilt.  
**A/N: **Sorry for the delay! My computer actually started dying as I was writing this. I hope you don't mind long chapters, because this one is especially long. Also, I'd like to note that Zachariah is terrible at his job and I want to say that at least some of his Cas-hate stems from a bad case of hair envy. (Haha).

* * *

"We found the poet," Uriel said, hauling Castiel into the warden's office by his shoulder and shoving him into a chair. Castiel was unharmed, but he knew he was going to be punished harshly in spite of the fact that he had not physically hurt anyone. Challenging the warden's authority was a more severe transgression than tearing a fellow inmate apart. Castiel knew that well. Uriel and Andréal stood with their nightsticks ready. The ripped—now useless—microphone was planted on the displeased warden's desk.

Zachariah had been waiting, which was something he hated doing. The warden had planned on leaving early that day, but instead, he was reclining on the edge of his desk, looking down at Castiel with a degree of loathing that permeated the air. Castiel's recitation and the sudden death of one of the guards that occurred during it were now going to keep the warden late. Dr. Devereaux would report that the cause of death of the guard was a seizure completely unrelated to Castiel's words. Nevertheless, there would be a considerable amount of paperwork for the warden to complete. Zachariah hated paperwork as much as he hated waiting.

"Castiel," Zachariah said. The corner of one of his eyes twitched from the pains he was taking to keep his voice neutral. "What were you doing?"

"I was purifying the prison, sir."

Irritated, Zachariah squinted up at the ceiling. Ever since Zachariah had quoted some Bible verses to Castiel only to be corrected by the inmate, the warden had detested him. Zachariah despised almost every man under his care, but he believed Castiel was haughty, disturbing, and reprehensible in a particularly offensive way. Zachariah saw Castiel's piousness and good manners as mockery. For fear of making his disgust for Cas more evident, the warden momentarily held his tongue. He craved a drink, but wouldn't dare drink in front of Cas. Finally, in a measured tone, he said, "The intercom system is only for the use of the staff."

"Apologies, warden," Castiel said, "I thought the exorcism would benefit everyone, including the staff."

Zachariah shot him a look. "The what?"

Castiel inhaled a thoughtful breath before frowning as he explained, "I was performing an exorcism. Are you not familiar with the Rituale Romanum?"

"Of course I – I know," Zachariah snarled, "That's not the point. I don't care if you were singing 'Ave Maria.' You've set a bad precedent. You start violating the rules a little here and a little there, and then everyone starts to get ideas. Ideas, Castiel, that don't belong in my penitentiary."

The handsome convict had the audacity to smirk and nonchalantly cast his gaze away from the warden. He was silent to avoid voicing any of the imprudent thoughts on his mind.

Zachariah closely examined Castiel and noted a difference in the man. Castiel appeared every bit as dashing and relatively youthful as the last time the warden had entertained him in his office. Castiel's dark hair was just as thick and envy stirring as it had been the first time the warden had ever looked upon Cas. Yet, his manner of being was more insolent and casual. Cas wasn't as frozen as he had once been.

"Did you make this device yourself?" Zachariah inquired, indicating the microphone on the table.

Castiel was quick to lie to cover for Charlie and, thankfully, the warden believed him. After tense, awkward moments of condescending lecturing, Castiel was escorted out of the warden's office. The prisoner was left in solitary where he would remain to serve as a warning to others not to disturb the peace of the prison or abuse the equipment of the institution. Meanwhile, agitated and alone in his office, the warden caved in to have an early afternoon drink.

* * *

"Two weeks?" Dean exclaimed. "Two weeks? That's not fair! That doesn't make any damn sense. He didn't do anything. Nobody got hurt. He was barely on the intercom for a minute or two."

"Yes, sir, two weeks," Uriel replied. "Serves him right." Uriel had been on his patrol when Dean had hurried up to him begging him for news of Cas. The guard had been so annoyed by Dean that he'd given him all the information he knew.

"The punishment doesn't fit the crime," Dean asserted firmly, "If there even was a crime."

"Disturbing the peace, messing with the intercom. Those are things the warden doesn't take lightly." Uriel tilted his head to the side, observing Dean with keen interest. "What did you do to him? To Castiel?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I don't know how, but I know this has to do with you," Uriel answered, "He's been different ever since you came along."

Not knowing how to respond to that, Dean frowned and kept quiet. He put his hands on his hips and considered the gravel beneath their feet. Dean knew so little about Castiel that he couldn't judge what affect, if any, he'd had on the man.

"He _likes_ you," Uriel declared with a bright smile suddenly bursting on his dark face. His expression was one of triumph as he shook his finger at Dean knowingly. They had been spending so much time together that Castiel must have picked up some of Dean's attitude. Now, Uriel thought, everything made sense.

Again, Dean was caught speechless. Of course Castiel liked him. They liked each other. There was nothing extraordinary in any of that. Still, Dean's mind was scattered by whatever insinuation Uriel was making. The smile the guard wore suggested he meant his words in a weighty manner.

"Before you even ask, no, there ain't a thing you can do to get Castiel out early," Uriel said, "If you bother the warden, he might even make it three weeks, instead of two. Then we'll all have problems on our hands."

Dean kicked the dirt. "What a load of crap."

"Well, tell Castiel not to be so hare-brained next time." Uriel tipped his hat and walked away grinning. "Later, Winchester."

"I did," Dean grumbled to himself after Uriel had left him behind. "It didn't do any good." Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, wondering what he would do without Cas for two full weeks. Half a month would slip by him without his best friend. Disgruntled, Dean rapidly plummeted into a foul mood.

* * *

"He didn't do anything!" Dean complained to Charlie as they worked in the library together the next day. Charlie had volunteered to help Dean since Castiel was gone. The redhead was motivated to work there because he had free time on his hands and he enjoyed being in the library, but he was also curious about Cas.

"At least he didn't get a beating," Charlie answered, "Anyhow, Castiel likes being alone. I bet he'll be fine."

"No, he won't. It's torture in there. Two weeks is way too fucking long for anyone. I can't believe that bastard Zachariah. Who does that to people? Self-righteous, nasty son of a bitch."

Charlie cringed at the thought of being put in solitary for two weeks for something so trivial. He thought the warden must have really hated Castiel. Earlier, Charlie had gotten an earful from Dean for having helped Castiel on his unwise experiment. He didn't want to make his time in the library with Dean worse by expressing his opinions about the warden's unfair animosity towards Cas. Charlie tried to look on the bright side of things, hoping he could help calm Dean. "Castiel is a very patient, spiritual guy. With a mind like his, he won't be bored. And Cas is tough!"

Paying little attention to the words of his companion, Dean fumed, "It's the principle of the thing. This is America, God damn it. We're locked up, but we're still citizens of the USA. There's no democracy in this system at all. Where'd he get the two weeks from? Did he look it up in a rulebook? No! I bet he just said, 'Fuck Cas, two weeks for him.' That's tyranny."

"But there's nothing we can do about it," Charlie responded.

"Exactly. Fucking totalitarianism. Who's going to give a shit if one of us rots away in the hole?" Dean grumbled.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, pausing from organizing his stack of books.

Realizing how obvious he was making his deep concern for Cas, Dean made an effort to look less aggravated. He failed at the task. He was wounded on Castiel's behalf and worried about what would become of him in his lonely, distant, and secluded cell.

Without Castiel, days dragged on. The library was so empty without the quiet man. Work was dull and Dean went through the motions with little care. Charlie's help was appreciated, but Dean missed his long conversations with Castiel. Castiel was the only person with whom he could share the most intimate details of his life. Cas was the only person that so deftly soothed Dean's body and mind.

Usually, Charlie and Dean talked about comics, books, and radio shows, but lately they mainly discussed Castiel. Charlie knew he was stepping on a boundary when he addressed Dean about his relationship with Cas, but he said what he thought needed to be said. Unbidden, Charlie advised, "Don't be too hard on Castiel when he comes back."

"I'm gonna tear him a new one," Dean grit out. It turned out that Dean's anger didn't dissipate as the week wore on. It merely shifted back and forth from Zachariah to Cas. Zachariah was a despot and Castiel was a fool.

"Don't," Charlie pressed. He pushed his glasses up and pursed his lips, trying to think of a way to form his next words. Dean and Castiel's relationship reminded him a little of a relationship he'd had with one of his former boyfriends. "Cas really likes you," Charlie said, "It will only make him feel so much worse."

Dean froze because that was the second time that week that someone had pointed out Cas' preferences for him. Dean was self-conscious about how much everyone knew of their relationship and was pitifully unaware of how deep it was himself.

"You should see what he's like when he's not around you," Charlie said softly to fill the silence, "He's not personable at all."

"What do you know?" Dean scoffed, "I've been here longer than you."

"Yeah, but – " Charlie faltered, "Just trust me, Dean. If you're hard on him when he gets back, it'll really hurt his feelings."

"Christ! You talk like we're going steady," Dean moaned and didn't hear Charlie mumble under his breath that they more or less were. "Alright already. I'll give him a big hug when he gets out. We'll hold hands and kiss."

Dean's attempt at sarcasm was unsuccessful because he inwardly found his propositions appealing. He did miss kissing Castiel. He missed watching him smoke and watching him read. Dean missed the warmth of his body and he even missed playing and losing at chess. He missed the innocence that surrounded Castiel's strange core of protective violence. Dean missed the beauty of his face and the way Cas listened to his every word like each syllable was an inspiration. Uncomfortable with his thoughts, Dean left Charlie and went to clean an area of the library that wasn't often cleaned.

_Damn it, Cas. It's only been four days_. Dean moped as he dusted, completely absorbed in pining after Castiel until he realized he was dusting near the newspaper section. The library had a small archive of old newspapers, mainly donated by the guards that read papers daily. There was enough room in the library to store them there in case they should ever be needed. The library carried the local papers and a few of the more renowned newspapers from other states.

_The Chicago Tribune._

Dean stared at the newspapers and abandoned his dusting rag. February 4th, 1932 was a date that Dean had memorized because it had to do with Cas. Dean was clever enough to realize it was most likely the day Cas had been arrested or had committed his crime. Yet, only now was Dean looking at the newspaper stacks that could contain important information about the convict he loved most. Dean had not investigated Castiel until now for many reasons. He didn't trust the word of Crazy Martin and he had been too distracted by Castiel's stunt and his subsequent punishment.

Most importantly, he found he didn't want to know. Dean was afraid he would read something horrible about Castiel that would render him irredeemable in his eyes. Dean admired him so distinctly that he needed to believe Cas was an okay guy even though he knew he probably wasn't. Whatever was in the Chicago Tribune had the power to tarnish his image of his beloved friend. _It doesn't matter. The past is the past._

Slyly, Dean checked his surroundings. Then, he lunged at the stacks of newspapers. They were so infrequently searched that the area they were in had accumulated considerable piles of dust. When Dean came across the Chicago Tribune, he searched eagerly for the date of interest. Instead of finding that particular paper, he found an area on the shelf that was cleaner than the rest. "It's not here," Dean muttered to himself.

Dean could find December of 1931 and January of 1932, but every date after that until 1933 was gone. It wasn't just the Chicago Tribune. Every other paper they had was missing eleven months of news from 1932. Dean frowned. The lack of papers from that time period was intentional.

1932 had been a lifetime ago for Dean. All he remembered from that era was suffering with Sam. Specifically, Dean remembered watching his hometown waste away like every other town, he remembered his dad shedding pounds until he no longer resembled himself, and he remembered giving Sam his portions of food at least once every day. The only job his father had had during those times was of the illegal variety and Dean had protected Sam from learning about what his father did to get them food. Criminal behavior, like military service, was something that ran in the family. Only, in 1932, many families were reduced to theft and other illicit behaviors to combat their hunger.

_I would have been thirteen. Is Cas that much older than me?_ At such a young age, Dean may have been kept ignorant of whatever horrific news surrounded Castiel's case. He also would have been too busy trying not to starve to care much if anything else happened in the world. There was a reason why those years became known as The Great Depression.

Scores of people had committed suicide and done things that were unlawful during that era. Abject poverty and ruin could not be an excuse for whatever Castiel had done, but they may have offered part of an explanation. A voice fell on Dean's ears.

"Oh, good. There you are. I'm looking for the latest Hemingway. Have you got it in yet?"

Dean lifted his gaze to Death's figure. The older man was staring at him with expectation, but Dean couldn't get his mind off of Cas. "What did Cas do?"

"I believe he performed a shoty exorcism. I thought you would have heard," Death answered, "Hemingway?"

"No, I mean. What's he in for?" Dean clarified. Somehow, Death wasn't surprised that Dean was in the dark about the most significant detail about his closest companion.

"Murder. I thought that was obvious."

"Yeah, I figured that, but what's the story? I tried to look for it. February 4th 1932. All the papers are gone."

"Are they? That's very fascinating. Perhaps we can discuss this more over Hemingway?" Death said, growing impatient.

"Do you know the story?" Dean asked. "I figure maybe you do because you're so…" _Old_. A person of advanced age like Death would be able to remember 1932 with clarity. "Knowledgeable."

"Do I look like a gossiping schoolgirl? Castiel got rid of those papers for a reason. I'd assume because he doesn't want you to know," Death remarked. His words proclaimed what Dean feared. Dean didn't want to consider Castiel as a conniving type.

"But you do know, don't you? Am I the only person that _doesn't_ know?" Dean tapped his foot nervously and moved his hands in an anxious manner. "What's the story? Wait, it's not kids, is it? Oh, God. Don't tell me if it's kids. I wouldn't want to know. I just want to know what happened. But, it's got to be something awful."

"What does it matter if it was a child or an adult?" Death answered. He found Dean's reasoning flawed and perplexing. "Do you think the life of a child is more sacred than that of a man?"

Easily, Dean nodded. Taking any life was horrific, but children were in another class.

"But, as soon as that child reaches a certain age, his or her murder would not be so appalling?" Death raised a brow. "How singular. I don't think you really want to know at all, and I don't believe I can tell you anything since we were all children at one time."

"Listen, Death. Don't get wise with me. You know exactly what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't, Dean," Death responded, "Man, woman, child. In death, all our souls are equal. A soul doesn't change from child to man. A soul is a soul. You, Castiel, and I are all guilty of sending souls to the other world."

"I just want an answer."

"But one you won't hate?" Death interjected. He took a breath and went on, "He was an errant priest. He burned down a Catholic school. Full of children."

Dean's jaw went slack as he felt the blow. That wasn't the answer he had wanted to hear at all. The wheels in his head were turning quickly. Now, Dean knew he shouldn't have asked, but he couldn't unlearn what he had just heard. "No," Dean snorted incredulously, "No, that can't be right. That doesn't sound like Cas. You're wrong. What's the real story?"

Death chuckled, which was not a pleasant sound at all. "You're right. That isn't the truth. Merely one of the many rumors circulating about your 'Cas.' Only those of us that have been around long enough know the truth."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't want to think of Castiel as a child incinerator. He was afraid of what Death would say next.

"Amusing that my lie should upset you. What if I told you the truth was worse?" Death prodded. "Or perhaps, 'better' in your estimation? Would it console you to know he only killed one person or two? That they were both adults?"

"Enough, alright. I get it." Dean lifted up a hand to stop Death. "I'll just ask Cas when he gets out."

"Word of advice, don't get too close to him." Death was no longer belligerent in his tone, and when Dean looked into his eyes, he thought he saw thinly veiled sympathy. "Hemingway?"

Perhaps the look in Death's eyes was only to lament the lack of Hemingway in his life.

* * *

Dean tried to sneak into the area where Castiel was being held twice. The first time, a guard told him to mind his own business and redirected him. Solitary wasn't called solitary because visitors were allowed. The second time, Dean stopped by in the evening and found the door to the hall where Castiel was kept shut and locked. He rested against the door and sighed. Castiel was so near and yet completely out of reach. _You are pathetic, Dean._

Dean retreated back to his cell to be counted for the night and settled into bed to re-read Sam's latest letter. The eldest Winchester didn't find much comfort in the letter he had received in Castiel's absence because its contents were so dark and despairing. Garth had left Sam's company and Sam was battling the guilt of surviving so much relatively unharmed. Sam had received honors for shielding the wounded Garth, stopping his bleeding, and saving his life, but Sam thought nothing he did could ever be enough. Sam wrote about what he could have done and what he should have done, as if it was his fault that his friends had been sent off on stretchers and in boxes.

"Can you believe this, Bets?" Dean looked up at the woman on the wall who smiled no matter what news Dean received. He knew only crazy people spoke to inanimate objects, but he didn't care. She was a girl of the war and she would understand the suffering of the Winchester brothers. "'I was always the least of all of you,' he says." He put the letter down on his lap. "It's like he wants to get shot."

Dean shook his head, anguished on Sam's behalf. "How could he ever think he was the least of us?"

Betty's sunny expression motivated Dean to write Sam a loving letter. There was a girl back home with golden hair to rival Betty's that thought Sam was the cat's pajamas. Before he could finish his letter, Dean succumbed to sleepiness. When he awoke, his first thoughts were of Cas. Hurriedly, he hid his letter to Sam and counted the days on his fingers.

_One week. One week down, one to go._

Today, Dean found Gabriel in the library instead of Charlie.

"Surprise!" Gabriel beamed.

"What are you doing here? What happened to Charlie?" Dean grumbled. It was too early to deal with Gabriel.

"What? I'm here to help. Geez, if I didn't know better, I'd think you like Charlie better than me."

"I do," Dean deadpanned.

"I would be offended by that, but I know it's just your broken heart crying out for help."

"Are you going to be like this the whole time?" Dean tried to ignore Gabe and started to clean up the library, but Gabe insisted on staying and conversing. Dean gave Gabriel work to do on the opposite end of the library from where he planned to work, but somehow, Gabriel's voice carried over to him. Throughout the course of the day, Dean heard tales of women Gabriel had bedded, admired, or been 'in love' with. The list was obscenely long.

"And then there was Kali," Gabriel sighed. "The most beautiful gal in the world."

Dean muttered snark under his breath. "You did say that about a few of them."

"She had silky black hair and dark brown eyes. She only ever wore saris – that's an Indian thing. She wore a different color everyday. Her father tried to kill me, but that only made me want her more."

Dean groaned and tried to tune him out because 'death threats from fathers' was just another popular myth of Gabriel's. He doubted the veracity of most of Gabriel's love stories. They were too strange to be authentic. No matter how silver-tongued and insistent Gabriel was, Dean doubted he could seduce a brunette acrobat and a blonde knife-thrower into a three-way. Whatever story Gabriel had with Kali was almost certainly at least half fabrication.

Sensing Dean's waning interest, Gabriel provoked him. "But enough about me. Why don't you tell me one of your stories, Dean-o? Oh, wait. You killed your last girl. Whoops."

Gabriel saw the next sequence of events occur in his mind before they happened in reality. He had crossed the line and he knew it. When he got Dean's attention in the form of a fist to his face, he wasn't surprised.

Gabriel had his finer points, but Dean had wanted to punch him for a long time. He was the housemate Dean had never wanted. Gabriel talked incessantly and liked to tease and incite to a fault. He was so hungry for attention that he was willing to get punched in the face for it. Still, as he held the cleanest wet rag they could find to the bruise on his cheek, Gabe looked at Dean with an apologetic expression. "You loved her, didn't you?"

A small part of Dean was sorry for having punched Gabriel, but then he remembered that it was Gabriel's fault that he was thinking about Lisa again. Dean gave an unexpectedly honest reply. "I don't know. And that only makes it worse."

Lisa had been Dean's second choice. His first choice had been a girl he had been unable to marry. His 'most beautiful gal in the world' was a girl that hadn't been allowed to go to the same school as him. She lived in a different neighborhood and went to a different church. Dean was never supposed to have spoken to her, but he had met her one day, and found himself in love for the first time in his life.

Gabriel watched pained sentiments of regret pass across Dean's countenance and knew he was thinking of a woman far away. Gabriel had already been punched once so he felt emboldened, betting that surely he could not get punched again. Daringly, Gabe inquired, "Was there somebody else?"

Dean had not thought of Cassie in a long time. He had never cheated on Lisa, but he had betrayed Cassie by conforming to what society expected of them. He had gotten to know her by taking a job his father had neglected. He had been tasked with the job of fixing Cassie's father's tractor, which was supposed to have been a quick job. Dean had only been there to meet her because her father's usual mechanic had been too busy and Bobby didn't care what color his costumers were as long as they paid. When Dean arrived at the farm and set to the task, he felt a pair of eyes on him.

Cassie had never seen a more beautiful boy and had not been able peel her eyes away from him no matter how hard she tried. She purposefully fed the chickens in a pathway that led to Dean. When she saw him sweat, she brought him lemonade. She brought him anything he needed, including things he hadn't known he had needed. Cassie had been bold. She sat by his side and inquired about the mechanics of tractors despite having zero interest in tractors. In return, Dean loved her skinny legs and the way she wore bright, floral dresses that matched her bright smiles. The day job turned into a week's worth of work.

Wearing the too-large jacket that belonged to his father, he had been a blushing, fumbling teenager around her. Although Dean never stopped feeling flustered in her presence, he couldn't stop grinning and wishing to see her as often as possible. Of course, when Cassie planted a kiss on his cheek and decided that he should be the man to take her virginity, Dean thought he would never be able to let her go. The tractor, the haystacks, and any place that was at least partially hidden away became their romantic playgrounds.

After being urged to finish the job on the farm quickly if he still had hopes of becoming a real mechanic, Dean fixed the tractor, but he didn't stop seeing Cassie. He found ways to disappear to find her, which usually involved playing hooky from school. His father didn't notice and Dean would never vanish when he was responsible for looking after Sam.

Dean had only been able to take her for a drive if she hid in the backseat until they were out of town. She would emerge, wearing a headscarf and giggling because she was amazed that Dean would go to such lengths to see her at all. She loved the car. More than anything, Cassie loved watching the stars with her head in his lap in the backseat. In those moments, Dean had been foolhardy enough to believe that he could marry her.

Cassie knew better and had been the one to break it off. After one spring together, they never spoke again. He would only see her if he really looked. Dean took Sam to get ice cream at the park furthest from their neighborhood just to see her from afar. He had already become disillusioned by much of the world by that point in his life, but, when Dean saw Cassie in the park, drinking from the fountain that was not meant for him, the idea that there was something very wrong with the world became firmly cemented in his mind.

No amount of women could make up for the hole Cassie had left in his heart. After Cassie, Dean bragged about his subsequent conquests, hoping that his boasts would give the impression of happiness. He had tried, but never succeeded in finding another woman that could astound him in such a pleasurable, exciting way.

Dean was ashamed that he had thought of Cassie on his wedding day, wondering if she had found someone that would have been acceptable to her family. Now, Dean wondered if he would have found himself in jail if he had married Cassie instead. He was never supposed to be in jail anymore than he was supposed to have met Cassie. Dean couldn't help but be amazed that his greatest ally and closest friend in prison shared such a similar name to his first love. Every now and then, Dean felt a nudge that he thought was a sign from God. That strange, sorrowful afternoon was one of those moments.

"Dean?" Gabriel waved a hand in front of Dean's face to bring him back to reality.

"Apart from Lisa, I've never dated anyone for more than a month or two," Dean said, "I've never cheated on anyone, especially not Lisa. I don't have any good stories, so stop asking."

Dean's love story wasn't full of death threats, serenades, or poems. It wouldn't make him proud or happy to share it with Gabriel, so he buried it away.

* * *

A narrow opening on the door of Castiel's tiny cell was opened and a plate of food appeared in his view. Cas was locked in a place with no bed and only a sliver of a window, from which minimal light entered. He didn't move to touch the plate. As Charlie anticipated, Castiel's mind had been thoroughly engaged. He'd been occupied with prayer and thoughts of God, Dean, and the crime that he never mentioned to others.

At first, he had begun to neglect food because of his incredible internal fixation. He'd busily pondered the needs of his corporal vessel and how it hungered for a satisfying meal and craved Dean's touch. Knowing he was a sinner beneath even the modest morsels placed before him, Cas thought his body was greedy and selfish. Worst of all, he'd allowed himself to become attached to someone that was too good for him. Castiel could become numb to the hunger that seeped into his bones. He could resist food, but he couldn't resist his desire for Dean. Each minute they were apart, Castiel only missed him more. His desire for the material enlarged the chasm between him and God.

After the second day alone, Cas made a conscious effort to fast. He humbled himself through his fast and begged God for forgiveness and guidance because he was lost in a wholly new way. He was guilty on so many levels and no amount of suffering could ever atone for his sins. No ritual purification could cleanse his wayward soul, but he still wished for the ability to give his body and soul to the Supreme Being for a noble purpose.

Cas didn't blame Zachariah for exiling him to his distant cell. In fact, he wished he could have been quarantined years ago. Two weeks in the hole was merciful and generous for all the wrong he had done in his life. As far as he knew, the world had never benefited from his presence.

Castiel was becoming weak. Whenever he felt faint, he drank water slowly. Suddenly, the youthful voice of his guard for the day reached his ears. "Castiel?" They were not supposed to speak to each other, but when he received no answer, the guard tried again. "Did you eat yesterday? Hello? Castiel?"

"Alfie…" Castiel croaked. His name was the first word he'd spoken in days. Andréal stilled on the other side of the wall.

"Nobody calls me that." The reason he had inquired about Cas' eating habits was because his plate from the day before appeared untouched. Now that he'd begun conversing with Cas, he found it difficult to stop.

"Alfie…" Cas whispered the guard's middle name in spite of his protest. "I didn't eat."

The tone of his voice was so soft that Andréal didn't hear him. "Are you okay in there? When was the last time you ate?"

"What would you do?" Cas asked. "If you were in my shoes?"

_I would eat_, Andréal thought. He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"Would you try to disappear from the world?" Castiel rasped. _Would you die of shame?_ He thought of Dean, as he increasingly did. "What would you tell him?"

"What are you talking about?" Andréal's voice rang with mounting concern. He was glad Castiel was alert enough to speak, but suspected that his confinement was affecting his ability to reason.

"Why should I ever go back out there?" Castiel questioned. "If I go back I'll only cause him pain."

"Dean?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you friends? I thought – " Andréal gasped. _Oh_. "Does he honestly not know?"

"He doesn't know anything." Castiel felt his insides lurch. He was nauseated, more at himself than anything he had done to his body. "That's why I ask. What would you tell him?"

Against protocol and all better judgment, Andréal unlocked Castiel's cell and entered the room. What he saw in Castiel was hardly a man. He was a phantom of a person, waiting to die. Andréal got on his knees and tried to force Castiel to drink some water. Full of sympathy, he asked, "What have you done?"

Cas gently brushed the cup aside. "I don't deserve pity of any kind."

"You weren't put here so you could die!"

Castiel used a considerable amount of energy to focus his eyes on Andréal. "He won't answer me. I have no answers to anything. I still don't know what to say to Dean. I don't know – "

The young guard had trouble following Castiel's train of thought and was worried that he had become delirious from hunger and thirst. Only because he knew Castiel and because the convict turned his gaze to the bright slit above, did Andréal realize Cas was talking about God. Cas had the look of a desperate, forsaken man. Andréal considered Castiel's dilemma and couldn't come up with any answers either. "Maybe don't tell him anything. Don't say anything until you know what to say."

"I don't want him to know… Not a thing."

Ages ago, a soot and blood-covered, heartless face had been printed in the papers. That light-eyed monster appeared Andréal's mind's eye. The guard believed that the man of that headline and Castiel were the same person in name only. He saw none of that criminal in Castiel now, as he lay helpless from his self-induced torture. Andréal was compassionate in a way he had been warned by his superiors not to be. "I don't understand," He said softly and honestly, "You're not at all what I imagined you would be. I've never met a more learned man, so devoted to God. I know you protected Dean. I know you've watched over Gabriel. How could you have ever – "

Andréal cut himself short with the recognition that he had already done enough wrong for the day. As much as he wanted to trust and believe in Castiel, he was duty bound to keep him at arm's length. His only hope was that Castiel was delirious and that he would forget everything he'd said.

"I don't know." Castiel closed his eyes. He never wept, but his face, though dry, was expressive in its wretchedness.

"Castiel?" Andréal raised his plate to Cas. "Please eat."

"I would rather not."

* * *

By Andréal's insistent urging, Castiel was released four days early. Before doing anything else, the newly freed man's legs moved of their own volition, carrying Cas directly to Dean. When he appeared in the doorway of the library, he saw Dean chatting to Gabriel. In his eyes, the sight of the two together created a scene from Paradise.

Both men turned and stared when Cas entered. They were equally elated to see him bathed in sunlight in the doorway. Dean and Gabriel broke into pleased, surprised smiles.

"You got out early!" Rejoicing, Gabriel sprung to his feet to get a good look at his friend. Castiel was filthy and the hair on his jaw had grown longer than Gabriel had ever seen it. Gabe pulled Cas into his arms even though it was evident that Castiel's clothing had not been laundered in a long time. Stunned and weary, Castiel couldn't match Gabriel's cheer. He stood in a daze.

Looking at Castiel again, Dean couldn't be anything but ecstatic. Unkempt as he was, Cas was absolutely perfect and Dean was thrilled to see him. Grinning from ear to ear, he walked to Cas and brushed his fingers on his unruly, overgrown facial hair. "Nice peach fuzz."

Dean's small gesture and the minuscule chuckle that followed it were marvels to Castiel. His eyes fixed on Dean and joy erupted into his heart so emphatically that he feared he might burst. Cas was at a loss for words. "Aw, Cas!" Gabriel snickered, "You've been away too long. You forgot how to talk again."

"Damn, it's good to see you again," Dean added as he fought to keep his hands to himself. Castiel opened his mouth slightly, but failed to produce words. Dean's smile faltered for a second. "Cas, buddy, you okay?"

Castiel nodded and Dean was so delighted to have him back that he didn't question him further. Every bit of hostility that had ever surrounded his thoughts of Cas evaporated. Dean cocked his head and said, "Let's clean you up, huh? You can borrow my razor."

Gabriel's approving and widening grin indicated that he had interpreted Dean's words sensually. "Yeah, Cas," Gabe teased. "Go. Borrow his razor."

"Shut up, Gabe," Dean hissed and grabbed Castiel by his shoulder. Castiel didn't protest as he was led from the library through the back door, but he did wonder why Dean had chosen to walk with him through the seldom-used hallway, rather than the main corridor. That was, until Dean paused to suddenly draw Cas into his arms. Dean held him tight, properly savoring the return of his friend. "I missed you," He admitted. "Don't leave like that again, okay?"

In the dim hallway, Castiel was enlightened to his purpose. The feeling that tore through Castiel's body and gave him the will to live shouted to his soul that there was one good thing left that he could do. It was the one thing he couldn't avoid doing. _I love you_.

Dean prepared to release Cas, but Cas pulled him back into his body. He wanted so desperately to do good and believed the only good he could still do in their desolate, lonely environment was to give Dean all of his love. Cas knew he was meant for the task. He was meant to protect Dean and bring him any bit of happiness he could in their prison.

They made their way to the communal showers. Dean was excited and chatted cheerfully with Cas. He complained about having been left alone with Gabriel and mentioned how he'd been subjected to listening to the tales of all of Gabriel's former lovers. Dean described Sam's latest letter and his response to its dreary contents. Castiel noted that Dean was having difficultly keeping his hands still and he thought he saw the hint of flushed skin on his cheek. "You've been wearing the same clothes the entire time, haven't you?" Dean observed. "Hey, don't sweat it, you can borrow my spare 'til you clean yours."

Dean drew Cas to one of the mirrors in the room adjacent to the showers and handed Cas a bar of soap. He commanded him to wash his face before his shave and Castiel obeyed. Dean whistled at the amount of grime that swirled down the sink. The Winchester didn't often feel particularly clean, but he was downright pristine in comparison to Cas. "Did they let you smoke?"

"No," Castiel croaked his first word to Dean.

"Don't worry, we'll get you some." Dean ran his hand in a brief, soothing motion over Castiel's back as the man dried his face. Dean busied himself with the lather and Castiel watched intently. When the first bit of cream was applied to his face, the blue-eyed convict recoiled.

"You don't have to do that," Cas said quietly, "I can shave myself."

Dean smirked and prepared to add more of the cool, white substance to Castiel's face. "I can't trust you with a book or a microphone. Why should I trust you with a razor?"

Cas swallowed and looked away. By now he'd almost completely forgotten why he had been punished in the first place.

"And, you've got shaky, smoker's hands. It's my treat. Trust me, I'm a pro," Dean answered, proud of his own handsomely shaven face.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel apologized. His fingers trailed over the edge of the sink.

"What for?"

"For what I did. It was stupid. I thought about it, and it makes sense – why it was a waste of time. Not even a demon would want to stay here," Castiel muttered. "It didn't do anything, did it?"

Dean could have easily told Castiel he told him so, but it didn't matter to Dean anymore. What mattered was that Cas was back. "Nah, not really." Dean hesitated before admitting something that even he found to be distressing. "Except…Well, don't go taking this the wrong way, but, uh, somebody died. While you were doing your thing."

Castiel's eyes widened, which was a funny look when his face was covered in shaving cream.

"Yeah, it was a guard. He had a seizure. Thing is, since it happened while you were doin' your little radio show, you spooked a lot of the guys. Now there's rumors you cast a spell and that you're a…" Dean paused, laughing. "A Satanist."

"What?" Castiel replied in horror.

"I know. These knuckleheads are fucking uneducated," Dean remarked as he cleaned his razor. Dean may have never graduated high school, but he knew how to distinguish his religious nuts. Cas was the good kind. With the tips of his fingers, Dean guided Castiel's head up, "Hold still."

He scraped away a clean segment on Castiel's jaw. Dean's green eyes met Cas'. "I defended you, you know. Your religious honor. 'Cas ain't a fucking Satanist,' I said. I wouldn't mind if you were, I guess. But, you're not."

Every word, every gesture of the Winchester stirred Castiel's growing sentiments for him. Cas would have never suspected that something as simple as a shave could restore him to health so effortlessly. Dean was careful and kind in a way that elicited awe in Castiel.

"Damn, you're hairy," Dean snorted. Then, frowning, he said, "I don't think I've ever seen you shave before. How often do you usually shave?"

"I don't like shaving. I try to do it as infrequently as possible," Castiel answered. "No more than two or three times a week."

Dean memorized that detail about Cas because he loved the other man's perpetual stubble. Dean was used to shaving almost every day in the military, but he preferred Castiel's jaw line distinctively unmanaged because that was how Cas liked it. The reason why Dean had never seen Castiel shave was the same reason he'd never seen him shower. When they were in the bathroom, they were usually surrounded by a multitude of men. They kept to a schedule and Dean couldn't afford to be caught lusting after Castiel in the presence of others. They had a tacit agreement to avidly avoid each other in the bathroom, which made their moment together now all the more unusually pleasing.

Dean wanted Cas in the shower so badly that he took some of the shortest showers of any of the men. He'd come to be thankful that the water was always so cold. It wasn't just the freedom to privately enjoy Cas' body wet and naked that Dean wanted. Dean longed for the ability to share a bed with him. He wanted to wake up next to Cas and watch him have his morning shave in calm, without the eyes of others upon them. Dean dreamed about having quiet mornings with Castiel in a house without worries. The house would be bright and full of things that they owned. They would never wear matching outfits again and they would have late, leisurely breakfasts on the weekends together. He shaved Cas, pretending that such a reality could be theirs.

"Looks good," Dean said when he was done. He cleaned Cas and openly admired his smooth face. Castiel had trouble meeting his eyes.

"Thank you," Cas answered, fully believing that he didn't deserve to be regarded with such tender and beautiful green eyes. He wanted to kiss Dean, but also worried that someone would enter. Castiel couldn't willfully contribute to Dean's shame or discomfort. Simply, he said, "I'm dirty."

Dean inhaled, unsure if he was being given an invitation. He swallowed hard and nodded for lack of knowing what else to do. Castiel took off his shirt and left it on the sink before wandering in the direction of the showers. _Okay, stay calm. It's alright, Dean. He's just dirty. So dirty. Stop! Cut it out, he's obviously tired._ While Dean inwardly battled with himself another convict passed by him. Dean couldn't decide whether or not to join Cas in the shower after the stranger left or to go get Castiel some fresh clothes. The nicest thing to do would probably have been to get the fresh clothing. Certainly, after Castiel's ordeal, he would need some time to recuperate. Perhaps it was unwise to inundate Cas in affection so soon.

The stranger left. Antsy, Dean bolted in the direction of the showers. It wouldn't hurt to take a peek, he reasoned. "Hey, Cas?"

Dean found Castiel naked, but the sight of him was alarming, rather than arousing. Cas was leaning against the tiled wall, shivering. Being around Dean had given him strength and had motivated him to bare a strong face, but as soon as the chilly water had poured over his body, Castiel crumpled into the pain he'd inflicted upon himself. His body was lean, dried up, and waning. He looked like he was one wrong move away from fainting. Dean rushed to his side and propped him up. "What's the matter?"

Castiel's face had turned a shade paler. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Bull _shit_. What did they do to you?" Dean snapped. "Did they hurt you? Who was it?" Castiel wouldn't answer and his atypical feebleness kindled the Winchester's fury. Dean had been worried that something like this would happen. He made a quick assessment and cursed under his breath. "They didn't feed you."

"No." Castiel furrowed his brows. Dean took his words the wrong way, but Cas promptly admitted the truth. "I didn't eat. Wouldn't eat."

"God damn it, Cas!" Dean brushed his dark, wet hair out of his face and tried to get the other man to meet his eyes. _You fucking idiot_. Displeased, Dean cried, "Why would you do something like that?"

"It was a fast," Castiel whispered. What had started as a fast had become an attempt to waste away, but he could never tell Dean that. "I'm sorry. I got carried away."

"A fast? For fuck's sake! Did you fast the entire time you were away? Did you eat anything? God _damn_ it." Dean supported Cas and did his best to put the man back together. Taking care of Cas and nursing him back to health became his sole goal from that instant on. Castiel didn't have the energy to explain himself completely, which was just as well because no explanation would have satisfied Dean. After hastily cleaning and clothing Cas, Dean half-carried Castiel to the kitchen and forced his way through to get Cas a fresh glass of water and a roll of bread. He glared at Castiel until he ate and drank and shouted at anyone that tried to disturb them.

His stomach had been empty for so long that he felt it fight the bread. Cas chewed slowly and swallowed with hesitation, but eventually the bread and water were consumed. Now that he had eaten, he was more ravenous than before. Dean filled up another glass of water and took more bread for later. He didn't leave the kitchen with Cas without threatening the new dishwasher. "You saw nothing."

Dean remained with Cas in his cell until he had had more to drink and eat. He commanded Cas to rest. When dinnertime came around, Dean switched plates with Cas when he saw the other man's portion was slightly smaller than his.

"What's the matter with Cas?" Gabriel asked Dean. "Hey, pal. You sick or somethin'?"

"He stopped eating," Dean replied in a surly, quiet tone. "But he's going to eat now."

Dean didn't leave Castiel's side for the rest of the evening. He remained in his cell with him until the last possible minute to watch over him. He sat on Cas' bed reading with Castiel's head propped in his lap. Dean kept one hand on his book and the other arm draped across Castiel's chest from where it could feel the slow, steady beats of his heart. Dean had to re-read the sentences of his book multiple times because nothing written in ink could be as interesting as Castiel. Drifting in and out of sleep, Cas said nothing, but he still occupied a huge portion of Dean's attention.

"You're such a child," Dean muttered, thinking that only a fool would starve himself for God or for any reason at all.

Castiel cracked his eyes open and regarded Dean with shame. Dean lowered his book, knowing that he had less than three minutes to return to his cell. Reluctantly, Dean slipped away and fluffed Castiel's pillow to prepare him for sleep. He bent over Cas and finally pressed their lips together. Castiel was surprised but reacted with pitiful eagerness because Dean's lips had filled his fantasies for days of solitude. Dean's tongue touched his cracked lips and he welcomed the deepening of their contact. Too soon, Dean parted. "Think about what you did," Dean breathed against his mouth. "And then never do it again."

With his book in hand, he left Castiel for the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings:** Strong language, explicit sexual content  
**Summary: **Reunited with Dean, Cas becomes healthy again. As time passes in the prison, they pick up different hobbies and their intimacy grows.  
**A/N:** Ahhhhh, I know I took a long time with this and I'm sorry! I hope you can find something to enjoy in this chapter. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Under Dean's vigilant eye, Castiel recovered. The dark-haired inmate returned to an even healthier state than before because Dean began to dote on him in a way he had never previously done. The time they had spent apart had been short, but monumental in its importance. Dean came to realize he needed Cas. He could not explicitly verbalize Cas' significance to him, but Dean did show the magnitude of his feeling for the other man in every other way he knew how.

Getting Castiel to eat again was only one perceptible consequence of Dean's heightened sense of devotion to Cas. Dean deliberately made a point to ask Castiel what was on his mind more regularly, especially when he appeared sullen. Dean relearned the soreness of losing at chess because he was aware of how much Castiel missed playing. Each time Dean lost, he cursed, but also smiled. Castiel's freckled companion promptly lit most of his cigarettes as a gentleman might have done for a cherished lady. Dean became bolder in how often he demonstrated physical affection as well, caring less about who might see. He kissed and held Castiel as if he was afraid he would wake up to find Cas gone.

Most of these gestures had become instinct to Dean. At the same time, Dean was also more keenly aware that Castiel's unknown crime must have been colored by a horror that matched, or surpassed, that of his own past. Dean had suffered hunger as a boy and could only imagine the mountain of guilt a man must be carrying to willingly enter such a state of slow, constant torment. Whether Cas acknowledged it or not, he needed support, and Dean was eager to provide it. Cas benefited from the increased attention he was getting, though he was oblivious to the meaning behind the quiet changes in Dean.

Castiel's fingers stroked a minuscule, adoring path along the small of Dean's back, just beneath the waist of his pants. Every inch of Dean's tanned skin was worthy of worship, but Cas especially loved this particular part of Dean's body. The first time Castiel had been aware of this desirable patch of Dean, the inmate had been fast asleep, unaware that Castiel had been observing him and the area of his body on display due to his tossing and turning. Now, Dean's mouth was hot on his.

They hadn't bothered to hide away in the library storage room, opting instead to find a secluded area behind a column outside during their free time in the yard. Castiel's hand lowered into Dean's pants to grope the perfect ass he'd missed so dreadfully in solitary and to pull their hips together. The sensation of touching Dean and of having the privilege of knowing how his skin felt when he was excited made Castiel feel fortunate in a way that exceeded anything he may have ever felt. During the fleeting interludes of his mouthfuls of Dean, Castiel whispered, "You are so beautiful."

Dean paused and gazed into Castiel's eyes, giving their lips a break. Coming from different man, Dean might have felt embarrassed, threatened, or offended by such a compliment, but Castiel was so transparent in his love and so unable to resist praising him that Dean could only appreciate his pure sentiments. Castiel wasn't one to waste his breath saying anything other than what he believed with all his heart.

"You're not so bad yourself," Dean purred in reply. He slipped his fingers over the front of Cas' pants to ease his zipper down and caress the length of his shaft. Dean pressed their lips together again as he roused Castiel's desire. Heady, Dean murmured, "Downright adorable."

Outside of the library storage room, they were in constant danger of being caught together, but the knowledge of that risk added to their excitement. A part of Dean wanted people to know they belonged to each other. Dean spit into his hand and leaned into Cas to stroke their hard members together. Castiel's hands on his body expressed enthusiasm and desperate need with every pull and touch. Dean sealed away Castiel's utterances of urgency and pleasure with his mouth, feeling an equal amount of lust. They meshed as one and came, concealed in the shadows of the surrounding concrete towers.

Hot from the rush of their contact, Castiel affectionately scratched Dean's cheek with the stubble of his jaw as he continued to hold onto the other man with possessive idolization. He felt Dean smile into his neck before leaving a kiss on his skin. The scrape of Cas' stubble was a very welcome, very prickly reminder to Dean that Castiel was back. Castiel was again close and again his.

In the calm that followed, Dean reached up to drag his fingers through Castiel's hair, glowing with pleasure as he rendered the other man disorderly. "There," he drawled, "Now you look even more like yourself."

"I wasn't aware that I had a look," Castiel said through a small grin.

"Oh, you do," Dean answered. "And it's a good one."

Castiel donned a puzzled, bashful expression and Dean nodded in approval. _Just like that_. Intensely focused on Castiel, Dean placed a kiss on his jaw, his cheek, and his lips. "Downright adorable."

Quickly, Castiel reordered their clothing and left several kisses on Dean's face. The Winchester expected to enjoy another long session of mingling lips and tongues, but Castiel abruptly rushed away, mumbling a few rambling apologies and farewells. "Hey!" Dean whined, "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

Dean pursued him. "You're doing a lot of walking for going nowhere."

"I have something to do."

Dean chortled at the suggestion that Castiel could have anything more pressing or important to do than be with him. "Yeah? What's that? A luncheon with FDR? You gotta shine your shoes? Press your tuxedo?"

"No. The President would never stoop to my company," Castiel replied.

"I would. Again." Dean arched his eyebrows and played along in spite of his suspicion that Castiel's straight answer to his teasing was just another method of evasion. Castiel's anxiety heightened the slightest bit, and Dean noticed. "Baby, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just picked up a…hobby," Castiel said, averting his eyes.

"A secret hobby?"

Castiel stopped walking. He was battling his desire to tell Dean something, but ultimately held fast to his inner resolve to be elusive. "I suppose. You can think of it like that."

"You and your friggin' secrets! I – _mmnn!_"

Castiel had reached out a hand to firmly cover Dean's mouth. He didn't like to keep secrets from Dean, and there were only a few he felt he needed to hold onto. Cas wouldn't talk about his crime, and now there was something new he felt he had to keep under wraps. The last thing Castiel wanted was for his two secrets to be compared to each other because they were so dissimilar in nature. Cas could sense that his companion's provocative nature had been about to incite him into saying something he would regret. Dean's large, green eyes were wide and searching.

"It's not what you think. I just can't tell you about it," Castiel explained. Irritation flashed upon Dean's face, driving away his initial surprise. Suddenly, Cas felt a slick, warm tongue on his palm. The wetness of Dean's tongue startled him into releasing him.

"Fine, I get it. You've got a hobby that doesn't involve me. I've got a hobby that doesn't involve you too," Dean posed ineffectively. "I don't know what it is yet, but it's a damn good one. You'll see."

Castiel exuded nothing but tenderness as he regarded Dean. "I'm sure it is."

* * *

Time dragged on. Hours felt like days, days felt like weeks, and weeks felt like months. The agonizing crawl of time was emphasized by the reality that there was never anywhere to go and rarely ever anything new at the prison. When Dean's one-year anniversary of being in prison was a day away, he couldn't believe so little time had passed. Five years would have seemed more accurate.

The day before Dean's one-year anniversary of confinement was New Year's Day, a holiday that ordinarily evoked reflection. Dean sat on his bed reminiscing about all the changes he had experienced within that year. Without Cas, most of his time would have seemed unfulfilling. Thankfully, Dean had Cas, and Castiel had made his drawn-out days pass serenely and pleasantly.

Within his first year, in the eyes of others, Dean had graduated from being a gang's punching bag to Castiel's bitch, but neither Cas nor Dean would dare consider their relationship in those terms. They had been compatible since they met and were essential to each other because they were able to keep each other's dark thoughts locked away. Every day together they had been mostly successful at forgetting their lack of self worth. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and disgust, they had cheered each other with smiles, laughs, and idle chatter.

Castiel protected Dean because it was the right thing to do and because he cherished him. In turn, Dean was tethered to Castiel because he was interesting and he regarded Cas with high esteem. They didn't have sex out of any obligation, or as a form of compensation. Their carnal affair was an expression of their mutual admiration and was the best possible distraction in a world with too much free time.

After Castiel had returned from being locked away in the hole, Dean had taken up a hobby that didn't involve Castiel, just as he had promised he would. His chosen diversion had been there all along, waiting to be shaped into something special. Dean's hobby had been born from writing Sam, but his letters to Sam were not his hobby. Writing Sam was his brotherly duty. His leisurely pursuit had originated from all the words he could never have mailed. The truths that had gone untold and had often been quickly destroyed became important to Dean. He could never have mailed these words to Sam because he worried Sam might have become compromised if he had discovered his reality, and nothing was more important to Dean than Sam's physical and mental safety. Yet, Dean hadn't been able to let go of the ideas within those shriveled and discarded pieces of paper.

He had wanted to tell someone what he had experienced and what was on his mind. Cas had been the only person with whom he really confided, and he was invaluable for it, but Dean had wanted to speak to a person on the outside. What killed Dean on a daily basis was that free people were going about their lives without having a clue of how he lived. The differences between the war, civilian life, and prison life were so vast Dean sometimes felt isolated in a separate universe. Dean had become fascinated with the idea of making waves in the world of vacations, families, ice cream parlors, concert halls, parades, and picnics where he no longer belonged. At best, he had hoped to be like Gabriel with Sam's shoes, communicating something to the world to affect positive change.

Speech was one of the only freedoms that he still had, so Dean had taken to accomplishing his goal of enlightening a stranger to the things that were his daily life. He had wanted to address a stranger because all of his old friends were too close to his heart and to his crime. Dean had believed could pretend his anonymous reader was Sam and that he was no longer being disingenuous to his little brother by keeping silent. Most topics had been too painful for Dean to address, so he had begun with something simple, which was the prison food. He had written about how it was often stale or expired, and, at worst, embedded with maggots.

When Dean had sent his first letter out to the world, he had felt how a man stranded on an island might have felt after releasing a message in a bottle out to sea. The action alone had been freeing. Dean would have never expected that his words would land on the editorial column of a local paper, but they had. His accomplishment had endeared Dean to the entirety of the penitentiary because the warden had been furious at the publication that made him look like an incompetent, callous overseer. Zachariah was a constant target of hatred and mockery, so anything that displeased him, delighted the inmates.

Zachariah had been humiliated by a man he considered to be an unruly, uncultured ape. The warden, like so many figures with power, knew how to take any bad situation and turn it into a profit. He had feigned compassion and made a grandstand of his duty as a good Christian man to care for the wayward souls of his prison to the best of his ability, counting himself as one of the victims of the system. There wasn't enough money, he had argued. The only reason Zachariah had not chewed Dean to pieces and barred him from ever writing again was because the warden had known he could apply for more funds thanks to the commotion. He had requested an amount of money that was just under being obscene.

When he had received a little less than what he had requested, the warden had been disgruntled by the stiff regulations requiring him to use almost all of the money to improve the quality of the food. Still, the warden had been crafty enough to work in a fee to pad his salary. Dean had poked the world with a stick and it had resulted in a marvelous change at the prison. The food was still occasionally stale, but never rotten. Finally, the inmates were able to have eggs, on every Sunday.

"So it was you I had to fuck all along," Gabriel had commented the first day the eggs were served. He had been ecstatic and his smile had reflected every bit of his pleasure. "Okay, Dean. What's it gonna be? Handjob or blowjob? Or both? Both! I'm feeling generous."

Dean didn't need either when he had Castiel, but he had remembered Gabriel's own words claiming that nothing was free, so he had taken advantage of the offer and said, "Cigarettes. For Cas. I haven't seen you smoking in months now, buddy. That just don't seem right."

Castiel had been startled by the comment and had looked at Dean with unbridled adoration. He had looked like he was about to say something, but Gabriel spoke first, "Cigarettes it is!"

When they had sat down to eat, Gabriel had noticed Charlie was transfixed on something and he followed his gaze to Death's face. The Day of the Egg, Death had showed more mirth than any of the men at their table had ever witnessed. Gabriel had nudged Dean under the table. "Look, Dean. You made Death smile."

The expression had been bizarre on his face and unexpectedly charming. Wearing that tiny smile, he could have been anyone's sweet old grandfather. Death had savored his hot pile of eggs and said, "Next time you write, ask for pizza."

Dean had already garnered respect from many of his fellow inmates as a Nazi-killer and as a survivor of Alastair's torture. Dean was known as a fighter, and also esteemed as the only man other than Gabriel that could captivate Castiel and earn his loyalty. Now, he had the power of his words to further aggrandize himself.

Dean had intended to put off his writing after inadvertently attaining eggs, but he had been coerced into writing more. The next time Dean had written, he wrote for Gabriel. As it turned out, Gabriel had been sentenced to twelve years for his crime, which meant he would have more life left to live after prison. Dean had always understood him to be a lifer, but exaggerating his sentence had only been another one of Gabriel's dramatics. Being locked away 'for life' was a melodramatic metaphor to Gabe, and it wasn't that funny to Cas and Dean who were almost certainly doomed to die in prison as bitter, old men.

As a principally humorous endeavor, Dean had taken to promoting Gabriel's musical talents on paper because Gabriel would actually have the opportunity to have a real job on the outside someday. With a finely practiced hand, Dean had proclaimed that the greatest voice of their generation was locked away in their very prison. Gabriel had devoured every word, and six different letters had been mailed to different radio stations.

Gabriel had loved the idea of poking the outside world as much as Dean did, but he had still been amazed that Dean would bother saying such complimentary things about him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why the hell not, that's why," Dean had replied. What he had written were not lies. He thought it was entirely possible that Gabriel could become famous and it would be nice to have a friend that was rich and famous on the outside. More importantly, Gabriel had helped Sam. Helping Sam was something he was no longer able to do so anyone that could automatically earned Dean's favor.

"I'm still on for that blowjob if you are," Gabriel had answered. He had worked his way into Dean's lap, grinning wide. The feeling of Castiel's eyes on him had only made Gabe more forward, "I'm pretty amazing. Probably better than Cas."

"_No_. Cut it out already. C'mon, Gabe!" Dean had brushed Gabriel away like he was a bothersome child. No matter what Gabriel said, Dean could never believe he would seriously want to suck him off. Then again, it was difficult to discern anything that involved the golden-eyed man.

"You've just been so inspiring lately," Gabriel had swooned. "So nice."

"And I'm going to stop, right now. This is the last nice thing I am ever doing."

"That's what makes you so cute, Dean," Gabriel had responded.

"I'm not cute! I'm not nice!" Flustered, Dean had turned to Cas, begging for support. "Cas, tell him how not nice I am."

"He beats me," Castiel had confessed, completely straight-faced. Not expecting that reply, Dean had somehow managed to choke on air, while Gabriel had been reduced into a fit of hysterics.

Dean's pro-Gabriel publicity letters had all been ignored, save one. A single radio station had a sense of humor and a deep, sympathetic streak. The station had responded with a gift. The day the box had been delivered, every man of the penitentiary had been captivated and had burned with curiosity. Edgar had been the guard to open the gift and he had been the person to deliver the contents of the box to the population.

"So, yeah, this is for you. All of you. It's got a letter that says, 'keep singing, guys' and some other stuff. Well, you just read it." Edgar hadn't cared to read the entire letter out loud, so he handed it to Gabriel who had absorbed the brilliant response and passed it to the other men when he had finished reading. The correspondence had suggested that at least one of the employees at the station had served time. Edgar had handed the long, large box over to Gabriel as well, and, when he opened it, the heavens may as well have parted.

Sitting in the box had been a shiny new guitar that just about brought tears to Gabriel's eyes.

"We don't have any rules set up about the guitar yet. You all will probably be able to use it during rec time. You can hang on to it for now. Just don't break it," Edgar had explained. Edgar really wouldn't have given a damn if the guitar had been smashed to bits and he had taken his leave without delay.

"Don't break it, he says. I'd rather break my own hand," Gabriel had sighed. He had taken it upon himself to tune the instrument and then he had filled the yard with elegant strumming. It was like riding a bicycle, Gabriel had said. After so many years, he had never forgotten how to play. The music of the guitar was a strange and glorious addition to the prison. Gabriel played exotic tunes nobody had ever heard and folksy favorites that reminded men of home. From then on, Gabriel made it his goal to teach Dean how to play. Dean didn't particularly want to learn, but Gabriel had insisted.

Lighting up a cigarette, Castiel would watch every one of Dean's lessons with amusement. He loved the way Dean cursed and protested almost everything Gabriel suggested. He marveled at how Dean improved without seeming to understand how much he was improving. Dean whined like a petulant boy, but he never gave up.

During a particularly troublesome lesson, Dean had stopped to complain, "This is stupid, Gabe. You're the musician, not me!"

"The only thing that's gonna be stupid around here is _you_ if you keep holding Mary like that," Gabriel had hissed. He had named the guitar Mary after Dean's mother and half of his cousins. "We're going to have a band. You and me. I'll be the singer, you'll be the eye candy guitar player, and we will make so much moolah. Megabucks, I tell you. Cas'll count the money. Broads will be lining around the block to throw their naked bodies at us and we will never look back."

"You forget I'm no good at this and that your fantasy prison break scenario is just a friggin' fantasy." Gabriel had a theory that there would be a prison break. He believed with all his heart that the Mob would come to free Death and that they would all be able to slip out during the violent commotion.

"Shh, Dean. Work with me."

Wearing a scowl, Dean had pointed at the instrument. "This guitar is not my friend. Mary doesn't like me."

"Have a little faith. If you can take apart a car and put it back together again, you can learn how to play the guitar. The love of objects, Dean, you've got it," Gabriel had proclaimed. "What can be done with bits of wood and string; it resonates with you."

Gabriel hadn't been wrong. Dean enjoyed any moment when he could keep his hands busy. He never mastered the kinds of intricate, rapid riffs that came to Gabriel naturally, but Dean had succeeded in learning gentle, soothing ballads. The fact that Castiel loved to hear him play had been at least half of the reason why Dean bothered at all.

The year of 1944 had an end that could not be more disparate from its beginning. In the place of constant torture, solitude, and misery, Dean had friends and had developed a new set of skills. Dean's writing had been a great diversion that had led to an even greater love for the guitar. As isolated as he was from the world, Dean could not deny that the hellhole of prison also had some bright spots. Strangely, Cas and Gabe felt like the friends he was always supposed to have met. They were a new family that existed only because of homicide.

New Year's Day initiated while he was behind bars, during lights out. Dean would have forgotten what day it was if not for the singing that broke out at around midnight. A butchered variation of 'Auld Lang Syne' broke into the void in a surreal moment. Cries of 'Happy New Year' and shouts about the start of 1945 were also heard.

"1945…" Dean whispered to himself. As others continued to holler and howl, Dean imagined his perfect New Year's party.

Closing his eyes, he saw his house, lit up in reds and yellows. Outside, there were fireworks exactly like the kind he had nicked as a boy with Sam one Fourth of July. Cocktails, spirits, and beer were abundant and not a single hand in his household was without one or the other. Dean had barbequed mountains of meat for all his guests and Lisa had baked four different kinds of pies. She was alive and well because, in his vision, nobody had ever killed or been killed.

Sam wasn't at war. He was dancing with Jess in the parlor, unaware of anything other than her brilliant eyes and dazzling beauty. Balthazar sat beside Kevin at the fire, across from Charlie and Gabriel. All four men were drunk senseless. Bobby was timidly trying to charm Ellen, and Jo was having an animated conversation with Garth and Ash. In Dean's dream, his tumbler of whiskey was always full and Castiel was always right by his side. Lisa was too busy entertaining a laughing Ben to care that Dean kissed Castiel when the clock struck twelve. There wasn't a shred of pain, fear, jealousy, or guilt in this invented world.

* * *

Dean's late night fantasy must have translated into positive thoughts in his consciousness because he woke up feeling that there would be something special about 1945. Many other men had the same feeling. Death was certain the war would end and Gabriel secretly held onto the belief that Sam would return unharmed. They had only been requested to pray for Sam once, but Gabriel and Castiel had both been praying for him ever since Dean asked. Sam was always present, even if he was never seen.

The newsreels announcing the retreat of the Germans after their failed offensive of the Battle of the Bulge reaffirmed their optimism. January of 1945 was also a successful month for the Soviets that liberated parts of Europe, including what was left of Warsaw. Dean was always in higher spirits when Germans were being trashed. The news was so positive that a small part of his heart opened up to the same hopes Gabriel had of Sam coming back home.

During the middle of January of that year, Dean was generally cheerful. He was also sufficiently confident in his new musical skills to test Gabriel's theory that there was a correlation with playing an instrument and getting laid. Dean had learned a fairly short, romantic song in secret while Castiel had been doing whatever his mysterious hobby was. Gabriel had encouraged Dean, claiming that a serenade was the kind of thing that was romantic and ought to be done. In Gabriel's head, it wasn't right for a man to play the guitar so well without ever getting laid for it. Dean played well enough, and Castiel had been born to be their test subject.

One day at work, Dean disappeared and returned with the prized guitar. He got on a knee and began to play and sing 'I'll Be Seeing You' for a very unsuspecting Castiel. In shock, Castiel blinked and stumbled around a chair, dropping everything he had been doing while the library reverberated with Dean's tender strums and the warm notes of his song. Castiel had heard Dean play many times, but never sing. He was astonished by the quality of his voice and enamored by the way he preformed, completely aware of how he might be embarrassing himself. Dean didn't sing like he was copying someone else. He sang with emotion, like he meant every sweet word that came from his mouth. For about three minutes, Castiel was wide-eyed and completely flushed. All of a sudden, the library felt like a sauna. It was so unreal to think that Dean would go to such lengths to please him that Castiel half-imagined he was only experiencing a hallucination.

Dean could sing, and he was singing for Cas. In his song, he professed a kind of love sickness that reminded Cas of all the times Dean had spoken openly about how they could be free together someday. He remembered all the moments when Dean had declared he would choose to take him as a lover, even on the outside. He remembered all the places Dean had promised he would take him and all the things he had promised they would do.

The last note hung in the air, bewitching the moment in time. Thanks to all of his practice, Dean hadn't made a single mistake and it was clear he felt impressed with himself. He knew his voice wasn't as good as Gabriel's, but he had made up for it by being deliberately charismatic in his facial expressions and sincere in the way he sang the lyrics. "Well…" Dean said, "What do you think? Was that good? Or…"

_Stupid._

Having never done something so silly for another person, Dean faltered in the courage to continue flirting and his fingers stiffened around the guitar. Dean, who was often misanthropic and pessimistic, had never felt quite so bare and so concerned about the opinion of another person. Castiel was staring at him with such intensity that he cast his eyes away timidly.

Dean couldn't have been more lovable if he tried, but Castiel didn't have any words with which to respond. Seconds after asking Castiel's opinion, Dean was dragged into the storage room where Castiel articulated his appreciation with his lips and tongue. Cas passionately adored the mouth that was so beautiful in an entirely new way. Dean responded to his kisses with eagerness and the guitar clattered to the ground as Castiel lowered his mouth down Dean's body. The result of his playful test painted an enormous grin on Dean's face.

It seemed like ages ago that Dean had first wordlessly pressed Castiel against the library walls to convey his passion. Now, Castiel had Dean pressed against the door of the storage room to silently express the fierce, irrepressible need he had for Dean. To Castiel's ears, Dean's soft cries filling the small room were as delectable as the sounds of his singing. Dean climaxed in Castiel's mouth, but it was the look of satisfaction on Castiel's face that stilled Dean's heart and made him let out a ragged sigh.

"Guitars…good," Dean muttered dumbly. He rapidly descended to pull Castiel into his arms and give his dirty mouth a deep kiss. Dean pushed Cas into the hard floor where he was quick to stroke the other man's erection. Castiel writhed and moaned beneath Dean and their lips never once parted.

* * *

Dean's second birthday in the pen passed in a manner vastly differently than the first. Exactly one year ago, Dean remembered having felt sore, alone, and broken. This year, he had friends. Unbeknownst to Dean, Castiel also had a present for him. Dean didn't expect much of anything at all when January twenty-fourth came and he was happy to settle for being alive and unharmed.

"I can't believe I'm twenty-six. I never would have imagined I'd make it this far," Dean mumbled at the breakfast table, mostly to himself. More than once, for various different reasons, Dean had expected he would be dead well before this anniversary of his birth. He was astonished that he had survived his childhood, and that may have been the easiest part of his life. His next statement surprised every man at the table. "I feel so old."

Gabriel threw his knife at Dean and the blunt end smacked into his war-torn shoulder. "You be quiet, you whippersnapper."

"Ow!"

"You are the baby at this table," Charlie deadpanned. "If you think you're old that makes us grandpas."

"I still can't believe I'm younger than you," Dean replied to Charlie, who was soon to be thirty. "You look fourteen."

"And you act fourteen," Death commented to Dean.

"Do not!" Dean recoiled. "Hey, it is my freakin' birthday, for cryin' out loud. Why's everybody gotta be like this? Cas, he threw a knife at me! On my _birthday_."

"It wasn't sharp," Castiel replied dismissively.

Dean knew there wasn't going to be any cake, pie, or alcohol to mark this day and he was fine with that. He did know that, at some point, he would be getting sex, but he wasn't sure when. Dean stuck unusually close to Cas that day, anxiously waiting the moment when the other man would drop everything to fuck him.

As they worked in the library and Dean remained frustratingly unsatisfied, he struck up a conversation with Castiel. "Cas? Does it bother you, not knowing when your birthday is?"

"Not really. It doesn't make much of a difference, does it?"

"How old do you suppose you are?"

Castiel shrugged. "Older than you."

"How much older?"

"You're making me uncomfortable, Dean," Castiel answered. Every now and then Cas was afraid he was old enough to be Dean's father. He didn't think he was, but he felt perverse nonetheless for enjoying having a sexual relationship with the younger man so much. Dean knew Castiel well enough to perceive the nature of his discomfort.

"Yeah right, you prude. It's not like I call you 'Daddy' while we're doin' it." Dean draped his body over Castiel's shoulders. Channeling his inner floozy, Dean whispered into his ear. "I always could, Big Daddy."

"T-Ten years. Tops. I don't think I'm more than ten years older than you," Castiel rambled hopefully because he didn't feel comfortable with the thought that their age gap could be larger than that. "I don't really care when my birthday is. Gabriel thinks I'm a Gemini because I'm 'intellectually inclined' and I more or less accept that. We picked out a date for my birthday, but I forgot what it was. June-something. We never really kept to it."

"Gemini, you think? I'm an Aquarius."

Cas cast his eyes up to Dean. "What does that mean?"

"I dunno." What was more important to Dean was all the sex they should have been having in that moment. Castiel didn't pick up on any of his hints. To make matters worse, the library was especially busy that day. Several people came in just to wish Dean a happy birthday, including Crazy Martin who gave Dean a couple of cigarettes.

Dean decided he wouldn't lift a finger to work that day. He sat on one of the tables, smoking and pondering Cas. _June-something_. He wondered if there was anything he could get Cas in time for his invented birthday. Dean would most likely consult with Gabriel on the subject later.

Charlie visited and offered Dean something beautiful and unexpected. The redhead winked as he set his gift into Dean's palm. "Happy birthday, baby."

"Cufflinks?" Dean gawked at the golden cufflinks that were embellished with three leaf clovers bordered by green enamel. They were the types of cufflinks that would have been in style ten or more years ago. Charlie had polished them to the point that they were pristine.

"Yeah. I was gonna keep them, but I found them today while fixing one of the laundry machines and I thought, 'It's Dean's birthday. He should have these.'"

"Thanks, Charlie." Dean grinned and put the cufflinks on. They both laughed at how absurd it was to dress up their nondescript attire with such fine objects. "I never thought I'd get anything that was worth something. It's nice."

"I find things all the time," Charlie whispered in a conspiring tone. He had his own stash of all sorts of odds and ends that had been lost. Anything of value must have belonged to the guards and Charlie had no desire to do any favors for them by returning their goods. Every now and then, Charlie didn't wait for the guards to lose their belongings – he just took them. Charlie had stolen from Zachariah about three times already and the warden was none the wiser.

"You are something else," Dean praised him and Charlie left to go back to work.

Later that afternoon, Gabriel gave Dean some more cigarettes. "Don't smoke 'em all at once, birthday boy."

Strangely, even Uriel gave Dean a present that day. The guard slipped the smallest piece of chocolate into Dean's hands as he left the mess hall after dinner. Uriel wished him a happy birthday, but then added that he hated chocolate and if Dean told anyone he'd given him chocolate, he would break his kneecaps. Uriel was bizarre enough to laugh at the thought of brutality, causing Dean to wander away from him confused, and a little afraid.

Dean sucked on the ball of chocolate all the way back to his cell, trying his hardest not to let it dissolve too quickly in his mouth. It was so delicious that he forgave Uriel for his threats. He sank into bed, high on nicotine and chocolate, thinking he would have to jack himself off that night. Dean was resting on his back with his eyes closed when Castiel appeared at his cell door. The sun was just beginning to set.

Castiel's form obscured the fading light enough that Dean pried one eye open. _Thank God._ Dean was overjoyed to see him without knowing what Castiel had to offer him, or if he had anything at all. "You're not gonna stand there and watch me sleep again, are you? 'Cause I already told you that gives me the creeps."

"No." Castiel shook his head. He entered Dean's cell and settled himself on his bed in that manner of his that suggested that such a thing as 'personal space' did not exist between them. "I brought you something," he said.

"Yeah?" Dean grinned. He sat up and neared Castiel. "Is it pie?"

"Close your eyes and you'll find out."

Dean bristled with amusement because he was having intense déjà vu of a happy memory. He was now almost certain he was about to get pie, which was something worth closing his eyes for. Unlike the first time Castiel had made the odd request, Dean obeyed. He put out his hand and Castiel grabbed it. What was placed into his palm was certainly _not_ pie. It didn't feel like anything edible at all. The object was solid, sleek, and pliable in his grip.

"This isn't pie. If I didn't know better, I'd say this is toothpaste. Cas, so help me if you got me toothpaste as a present." Dean cracked his eyes open and beheld the object. He knew what it was instantly and it wasn't toothpaste. "Are you fucking kidding me? This is – this is lubricant!"

"For sex," Castiel clarified, thinking Dean would feel comfort and would be delighted by the admission. Dean loved sex, which was why Castiel had gone to considerable lengths to procure the lubricant. He'd bartered all his cigarettes and done a multitude of chores for months, just so they could have comfortable sex because he would rather not penetrate Dean at all if it would hurt him.

Dean was flabbergasted. In an awkward moment of misunderstanding, they spoke at almost the same time.

"You want me to – "

"No, Dean, I was going to – "

"Sorry?" Dean knit his brows together in a frown that Castiel perceived as being both incredulous and affronted. "Cas, you mean to say that you're offering to fuck me in the ass… _on my birthday?_"

Suddenly, Castiel was terrified that he'd made a grievous error. He may have disappeared and kept secrets from Dean for months on end for something Dean didn't even want. Disappointment was clear all over his serious features as Cas spoke. "Well, when we last talked about it I thought we had decided that since I have the most experience, and since I know what I'm doing…"

Dean brought his palm to his face in exasperation. "You are some odd ball."

Castiel froze. He didn't know the first thing about giving presents and there wasn't much he could give that would be of use. Pie had been his second idea, but he figured the lubricant would provide for longer lasting enjoyment. After a few moments in which Castiel suffered feelings of mortification, Dean stunned him.

"Okay," he said simply. His casual word of consent drew Castiel's immediate attention.

"Yes?" Cas stammered, "You're okay with it?"

Dean shrugged and then nodded without giving further explanation. In the next instant, Castiel found Dean inches from his lips, ready to touch and be touched. "You want to do it here, on the bed?"

"I thought that would be best," Castiel replied softly.

They had never had sex in a bed. Almost all of their rendezvous happened in the dusty, concealed areas of library or in the most hidden outdoor alcoves they had been able to find. All of those places felt more private than Dean's cell. Their cells were constructed to be observable, but Dean had been craving Cas all day, so he coaxed Castiel near and positioned himself into his lap. Regardless of who could be watching, he brought their lips together. "I've been wanting to fuck you in a bed," Dean admitted in a hushed tone, "Like a civilized person."

Castiel's arms encircled Dean's waist and he responded to each one of his kisses with ardor. Castiel had the same desires. He had the same yearning to sleep with Dean in a bed and to be able to look at him the first thing in the morning. There was no concealed place on the bed of Dean's cell, but neither man cared that night. "I'll be careful," Castiel promised.

Dean was still holding the lubricant in his hand as he kissed Cas and rolled their hips together. Castiel was atypically easily aroused because Dean had been teasing him all day and he had been wanting to drive into Dean since almost the first moment their bodies had ever joined.

"You taste like chocolate," Castiel remarked, unsure if he was imagining the sweetness on his tongue. "Cigarettes and chocolate."

"Mmhm," Dean murmured and continued to meld their mouths together. He would explain the chocolate later when he wasn't so wholly focused on being had by Castiel. A cufflink made a clink as it collided to the floor. "How you gonna do this?"

"I'll suck you off while I finger you," Castiel huffed, impatient to remove Dean's clothing. He tore at the buttons of Dean's shirt to uncover more of his skin. "With slick fingers. I'll go slow, starting with one finger. I'll do it as long as you need. You have to be relaxed and open. Plenty slick."

Castiel kissed Dean while he spoke and his mouth soon found purchase over his chest. Dean knew Castiel didn't mean his words to be anything other than informative, but the Winchester was becoming hard. Castiel's hand massaged the growing bulge in his pants as he elaborated. "If you like it, I'll penetrate you. If you don't, just tell me and I'll stop."

"Get blowing," Dean demanded and Castiel didn't waste any time. Dean's other cufflink fell to the floor along with his shirt, and his pants and every other inch of clothing on his body immediately followed. Castiel was naked and on top of Dean tracing every one of his muscles with his mouth as he pumped Dean's cock at a torturous pace. The tube of lubricant was already slightly warm from being in Dean's hand, but Castiel made an effort to warm it up more. Their complete nakedness was another anomaly and an uncommon intimacy for them. Usually, they were partially or fully clothed when they were together.

Castiel's tongue was diligent in caressing the length of Dean's shaft as he prepared the lubricant. Cas knew Dean's sensitive spots and was meticulous in teasing all of them before swallowing his length into his mouth to give Dean attentive sucks. A shiver of pleasure prickled from Dean's head to his toes and he cursed in soft tones.

Dean expected to feel Castiel's fingers long before Cas touched him. When he first felt a slick digit, it wasn't invasive at all. Castiel simply trailed circles into his skin in gentle motions, never faltering in his avid sucks. Dean thought he could tolerate anything with Castiel's mouth upon him, which was the intended point.

"Fuck, Cas." Dean panted, and moved his hips to beckon his friend. He was a little afraid and unsure of what to expect, but Dean also wasn't eager to wait. Only Castiel could make him want something he would kill another man for. The first digit entered his body with almost no resistance. It was strange, but not painful. Castiel felt Dean stiffen, but he promptly urged Cas on with the heel of his foot so Cas continued to explore Dean with care. A particularly strong, sensitive ache roused by Castiel's mouth elicited a series of moans from Dean. Dean was thankful for the bed and the pillow at his head because he had soft things to paw and claw into during Castiel's ministrations.

Castiel had purposely pushed Dean into the bed so Dean would be on his back, facing the wall and not the opening of his cell. As Cas expected, a stranger passed and debated whether or not he should watch. The inmate was engrossed by the union of Dean and Cas, but Castiel's sudden, sharp, and murderous glare scared him off. Dean caught a glimpse of Castiel's glare and mistook it for passion. Dean was so close to coming that the steel of Cas' eyes and the gentlest curl of Castiel's finger sent him over the edge. As Dean trembled through his climax, Cas teased him with a second finger, stroking Dean inquisitively from the inside.

Cas swallowed the come in his mouth and sucked the sensitive skin between Dean's legs. All the while, he prodded Dean, determined to find the most responsive inch of him. When his fingers brushed against it, Dean let out a quiet cry and moved his arm to cover his face. "The fuck was that?"

Castiel heard Dean's unspoken pleas to repeat the touch and he did, delivering another exciting shock. Castiel gave Dean's skin a loving bite because he was barely able to control himself while Dean was making sounds he'd never heard before. Dean clutched at the sheets, a slight sheen of sweat covering his body, while Cas fingered him thoroughly. Castiel climbed over his body, dragging his teeth and tongue up Dean as he quickened the strokes of his fingers. Cas lavished a hard nipple with his tongue, reveling in the way Dean squirmed and begged for him with the whole of his being.

"Fucking fuck!" Dean cried. Dean's graceless cry had been prompted by the strange, remarkable sensations Castiel was provoking within him and it was followed by the addition of another cruel finger. Dean bit his lip and arched his body into Castiel. Castiel pulled on Dean's lip with his teeth, afraid Dean would bite himself too hard from his excitement. Dean flung his arms around Cas' shoulders and gave him sloppy kisses back.

"Fuck you, Dean. So hard..." Castiel's muttered half-sentences were met with even less coherent strings of words from Dean. The tiny, rational part of Dean's mind wanted to know what happened to 'gentle,' but the rest of Dean loudly wanted 'hard.'

In a moment of clarity, Dean growled, "Fuck me, you son of a bitch."

Castiel was aching with too much desire to resist such an urgent command. With clumsy fingers, he covered his sore cock in lubricant. Cas spread Dean and thrust within him as carefully as he could manage. Painful and straining as it was, Dean encouraged Cas with his hips and feverish kisses. Dean was hot and incredible to the point that Castiel could no longer restrain himself. He drove into Dean, pinning him to the bed as he had dreamed of doing for so long.

Fingers dragged through Castiel's hair and Dean muffled his whimpers into Castiel's skin. It felt right to be penetrated by Cas and he was so well lubricated that Dean wasn't uncomfortable. Again, Castiel nudged his hypersensitive inner nerves in a way that sent a scream of joy into every particle of his flesh. The sharp moan he let out was maddeningly provocative. Dean never would have imagined he could have felt such a thing.

If any other inmate passed by the cell, Castiel was too absorbed in Dean to notice. He fucked Dean into the mattress with energy, caring only to feel more of the heat between them. Cas burned a messy trail over Dean's skin with his mouth and wavered from the intensity of feeling that was evoked in his body from their friction. Dean hiked his legs around Castiel's waist and grasped onto Cas as though nothing else in the world could ever be so important.

Castiel displayed a startling amount of stamina that made the night seem blissfully endless. The realization that he was becoming hard yet again overwhelmed Dean. Castiel flipped Dean onto his stomach abruptly and continued to pound into his body with rough thrusts. Dean lost all of his senses when Castiel simultaneously slammed him into the bed and stroked his newly erect member. Dean came again while clutching the rails of his bed. By the time Castiel came inside of his body, Dean was a twingeing, unintelligible mass of awe. He gasped and made a low, drawn-out sound when Castiel removed his spent organ from his body.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Castiel breathed an apology, fearing he had hurt Dean, before collapsing next to the other man. Neither Dean nor Cas had any vigor left to move at all. They rested on their stomachs, panting, with their faces turned toward each other. Bitten, twisted, and sweat-drenched, the only pillow on the bed supported Dean's cheek and the edge of Castiel's face. Dean gazed at Castiel like he was something from another world. Dean was seeing him with fresh eyes.

Finally, Castiel mumbled a sluggish question, "You okay?"

Dean nodded, but he wasn't sure if he was being honest. The adrenaline and endorphins dancing throughout his system prevented Dean from feeling the flares of pain that he knew were coming. Castiel had been rougher than he most likely intended, but Dean liked it. Any sexual experience that resulted in him coming more than once had to be counted as truly remarkable. "I'm good," Dean said, once he was able to speak. "That was incredible."

Cas smirked and willed himself nearer to Dean. Sharing the sullied pillow, Castiel tangled his limbs with Dean's and pressed their lips together. He kept Dean flush against his chest and rested his chin to Dean's forehead. Interlaced in a warm embrace, both men drifted off to sleep.

After about fifteen minutes, Castiel awoke. Instead of the panic he should have felt from worrying that he was off schedule and going to miss the nightly count, he felt only calm. Dean was still asleep in his arms, wearing an expression of absolute tranquility on his perfect face. Cas had never slept beside Dean – with Dean – for any length of time. The blue-eyed male tried to memorize every detail of this moment for the future, when he would invariably be left alone in his cell. He could still taste Dean's essence on his tongue. He could still hear his beautiful cries.

Castiel intended to leave a single kiss on his lips before moving to get dressed, but his first kiss incited many successive kisses. Under such loving gestures, Dean awoke and began to respond to Castiel's lips happily. They didn't know what time it was, but, if the light of the moon was any indication, they knew they would have to part soon.

The second Cas made a move away from Dean, the Winchester pulled him back to his body and kissed him deeply. Everything between them now was warm and perfect. To disturb the bond they had forged would be cruel. "Cas, stay."

"I can't."

"Stay anyway," Dean begged, gripping Castiel's wrist firmly. Dean had a penchant for asking for the impossible and Castiel would normally obey any command he was given, but this was not one he could follow. For bothering to ask at all, Castiel gave Dean a long, passionate kiss.

"I would give anything to be able to sleep here with you," Castiel whispered in a way that caused Dean to feel a powerful stir in his chest.

"Yeah, you would." Dean flicked his tongue against Cas' lower lip and said, "So do it."

Stunned by the heat of Dean, Cas took a pause to contemplate his desires. "Should I take a beating for you?"

If he tried to stay, a beating would surely occur. Dean knew Castiel was capable of all manner of outrageous things, but his words, spoken so seriously, made Dean change his mind reluctantly. "No," he said.

There wasn't a bribe big enough to grant their wish of being able to sleep together. They could only have what little they could afford and what they were willing to risk. Castiel lingered, but then forced himself away from Dean to stumble around, looking for his clothes. Castiel had a phenomenal body that Dean watched with lust and longing as he gathered his garments. Less than a handful of hours remained of Dean's birthday. "Hey."

Castiel turned to Dean, just as he had finished putting on his shirt. The hesitation Dean took before saying anything else made it evident that there were many things Dean might have wished to tell Castiel.

"We should do that again," Dean said.

Castiel slipped into his pants and bent over Dean to kiss him until Dean was intoxicated with love. "We will. Good night, Dean."

"Night." Dean sighed.

In a daze, Castiel exercised great will to saunter back to his cell. The void left by Castiel was bitterly cold, as was to be expected. Fortunately, Dean was in such ecstasy from their night together that he tolerated it well. When the time for the nightly count came, Dean groaned and put on underwear to be counted in the long procession of men at the prison. He was the only man so scantily clad and obviously ravished, but he did not care.

Andréal started to ask Dean where his clothes were, but thought better of it after seeing the state of his sheets and the way his garments had been flung around the room. Despite his current aggravation, Dean was shining in a manner that made the guard quicken his steps away from his chambers. Dean fell back into his defiled sheets and the bars of his cell sealed him away from Cas as they always did.

Castiel was dressed, but similarly unhappy, when the guards counted his segment of the jailhouse. He felt the slightest surge of violence boil within his body from the knowledge that the male in uniform before him had the keys to get to Dean. It wasn't fair that they should be apart. Cas did his best to suppress his feelings of contempt, but it was hard when he wanted only to hold Dean through the night. The ice of his eyes and the rigid anger in his face unnerved the guard that passed him by. Cas settled into bed, wondering if it was possible that Dean would be the death of him. Castiel would prefer such a death to any other, and he no longer believed he had any limits when it came to Dean.

Cas couldn't sleep. He remained on his back, staring at his Spartan cell walls. When something cold pressed into his wrist, he looked down to see a golden cloverleaf cufflink on his sleeve that didn't belong on any of his shirts. The item gleaming in the dark caused the brightest smile to blossom on his face. Castiel would be sleeping with a piece of Dean after all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warnings:** Strong language, sexual content, disturbing descriptions of violence and sex.  
**Summary:** Dean and Cas become inseparable after their blessed night together. Reliving the past, Dean is haunted by Lisa and Cas reveals a part of his dark history.  
**A/N:** This is the weirdest fanfic I may have ever written. Like, I don't understand why, but sometimes it creeps me out and makes me hella depressed, lmao. Every chapter gets longer than the last. Holy frijoles, this is one fucking long chapter. I really hope you all don't mind insanely long chapters. I am enjoying writing this and so grateful that you all are reading! I'm amazed! Really! Thank you, and I hope you like this installment. :)

* * *

The chill of the winter night was no impediment to Dean's ability to fall asleep. After bundling up in every stitch of clothing he owned, he wrapped himself in his sheets and fell into an instant, coma-like slumber. What posed a challenge was removing himself from his bed the next morning.

"Dean Winchester," called one of the guards at five past six in the morning. He met with total silence. Tapping his pencil once to his clipboard, he spoke again. "Dean Winchester."

The heap on the bed that was Dean didn't stir and the man in the uniform standing outside of his cell lost his patience. The crash of his nightstick upon the thick metal bars of Dean's cell emitted a loud, ringing noise that caused several nearby inmates to cringe. Dean, like every other prisoner, hated that sound with a passion, but he barely moved upon hearing it. "Hey! Five twenty-nine twenty-nine!" The guard shouted. "Rise and shine!"

Five twenty-nine twenty-nine moaned and curled more snugly into his pillow and sex-scented sheets. "I'm sick," Dean groaned. "Sleepy."

_Cas_.

Dean thought of last night and whispered his friend's name so softly into his pillow that it went unheard. If he had to wake, he wished Cas could be the person to wake him instead. When he imagined all the possible ways Castiel might choose to wake him, Dean made a low sound of pleasure.

"Sick, my ass," The guard answered. He passed his clipboard over to Edgar so the morning count could proceed on schedule while he dealt with Dean.

"Unbelievable," the guard grumbled. To rouse Dean, the guard had to prod him with his nightstick and then physically drag him to his feet. When Dean heard the guard mutter complaints, he begged to be left alone to sleep, but the guard was insistent. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. This ain't no day spa."

"Get yer mitts off me," Dean hissed as he struggled in the other man's arms, "At least take me out to dinner first."

Thankfully, guards were more lenient with prisoners that had difficulties leaving their cells in the mornings than they were with prisoners that were late to return to their cells at the appropriate times. Dean had no prior morning violations, so he was let off easy once he was on his feet. The Winchester was the last man to the showers and the last man to the mess hall.

His permanent seat in front of Gabriel had been waiting for him. That space on the bench was the niche he had carved for himself in a world where he never would have thought he could belong. Habitually, they all took the same spots each day to the point that the hundreds of breakfasts they had shared together were practically indistinguishable from each other. If not for Gabriel's new magnificent beard, Dean could have easily mistaken this day for any day months ago.

Gabriel had taken to growing a beard early in January just so something would be different. The condition of his facial hair was one of the few things in his life that the musician could still control. With his well-groomed beard, Gabe was dashing and appeared more mature. Yet, Dean had already begun to become used to it as well. The most striking change at breakfast that morning had nothing to do with their physical appearances. Dean sat down in his familiar spot and received several inquisitive glances from his companions.

"Mornin' princess," Gabriel said around a mouthful of partially chewed biscuit. Dean responded with a low groan and Charlie had to stifle a laugh with his palm. In a fog of sleepiness, Dean's eyes gradually found their way to Castiel, who returned the gaze when he could no longer pretend to be so completely fascinated by his porridge. Whatever thoughts they shared in that instant went unspoken.

Beginning with the day he had first persuaded Cas to visit Dean at his cell, Gabriel had always encouraged their friendship along. But, if he had been told then that he would soon be watching them so silently enchanted with each other, Gabe would not have believed it. His plotting had worked a little too well. Now, he had the urge to shout something at the pair because they were so obvious in their quiet worship of each other, but he resisted.

Neither Dean nor Castiel made any comments to suggest they'd spent a perfect night together. When Dean frowned and spoke, he posed the most ordinary question to Gabe and Charlie, "What day is it?"

"Thursday," Charlie replied. He hadn't been able to wipe off his grin since Dean had joined them at the table. Dean was in the most profound sex stupor he'd seen in a long while. Charlie had learned about Castiel's plans through Gabriel and he knew exactly what had happened without needing to have it spelled out to him.

Because he could, Gabriel had set up the most absurd requirements for Castiel to obtain the personal lubricant just to see how far Cas would go to get it. Gabriel had acted like getting him lubricant was the equivalent of breaking into Fort Knox with nothing but a trowel and a bucket of moxie. Castiel almost certainly knew better, but he had worked for Gabriel tirelessly without question, and Gabriel was confident he could have made him work more.

With a fierce craving for eggs, Dean sighed, "It should be Sunday."

"You're preachin' to the choir, amigo. Every day should be Sunday," Gabriel responded and then was taken aback by a subtle detail change about Dean. "_No me digas_, are you wearing Castiel's shirt?"

"What? No," Dean answered, befuddled. He inspected his shirt and stiffened when he noticed a patched-up tear he'd never seen on one of his own shirts. He wasn't so much embarrassed as he was stunned. He'd spent the night in Castiel's shirt without knowing it.

"Well, he's wearing yours." Gabriel quirked his head to the side and pointed to the cufflink Cas was still wearing on his sleeve. "This isn't his, and five twenty-nine twenty-nine is _your_ number."

They seldom spoke of their prisoner identification numbers because their numbers made them feel like objects. Every man had one stitched upon a small white square on his left shirt pocket. Gabriel was 87425, Charlie was 18336, and Death was 33284. "You're wearing Cas' number," Gabriel said, "Two-six-four-three-five."

Dean blinked. "So?"

"So, it doesn't belong on you." Gabriel wore the expression of a man who had just seen the stars suddenly shift in their positions. "It's not a lucky number if you're wearing it."

Dean ignored Gabriel to lean over the table to touch Castiel's sleeve, letting his fingers graze the bones of his pale wrist as he retrieved his golden cufflink. "Give me that..." Dean muttered to Cas without an ounce of believable malice. "You thieving rat. That's my birthday present."

Cas restrained a smile as Dean placed the golden object in his pocket. The area of his skin that Dean had touched tingled. Cas, who was generally more of a listener in the mornings, was even more quiet than usual. The slightest touch from Dean had sent him to cloud nine, and he didn't trust that his tongue could produce any words that would not be embarrassing. Death, Charlie, and Gabriel were all at the same table, but they were like the ocean surrounding the island of Dean and Cas. Gabriel and Charlie argued about the importance of their numbers while Cas and Dean continued to give each other loving, serene glances between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of biscuits and gruel.

"And what do you mean a lucky number? None of our numbers are lucky!" Charlie cried to Gabriel. The redhead had hated his number the instant he had seen it, but he probably would have hated any number that had been branded upon him. Numbers were for cattle.

"If you add Cas' number and mine together… you get eleven thirty-eight sixty," Gabriel remarked in wonder, but Charlie wasn't catching on. "It's got poetry to it. I'm planning to use it for gambling and as my lotto number when we get out of this joint. But, it's only lucky because half of it belongs to Cas."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean eyed Gabriel, thinking he was losing his mind again. Dean remembered how a few days ago Gabriel had experienced a small meltdown and claimed that his beard was the only thing keeping the universe continuing.

"It's what you call 'destiny,'" Gabriel explained. "The numbers are all random, but the man wearin' it isn't. We all had to be in the exact right place at the exact right time over and over and over again to get these exact digits, and that makes them more than a mess of scrambled numbers. Cas and I are pals so that's got to mean our numbers were meant to be together. Eleven thirty-eight sixty. It even _sounds_ lucky."

Dean exhaled noisily and looked up at the ceiling. "You're a loon, Gabe. There's no such thing as destiny."

"Oh, yeah? Is that what you think? Dean, if even one thing in your life had been different – something big, like your Daddy falling for someone that wasn't your mom, or something small, like you working late instead of getting home on time – if any one of those things had been different, you wouldn't be sitting in front of me wearing the wrong number."

"C'mon, destiny is just a thing that was invented to sell little brown books to schoolgirls and housewives," Dean replied. He was speaking to Gabriel, but his eyes kept focusing back on Castiel, who was unmistakably amused by what Dean had just said. Unknown to the other men at the table, Dean and Cas had once spent a day reading out loud from one such brown book. Dean had never heard Castiel laugh more than he had the day he had recited the tale of the young maiden who was saved by an Arab sheikh and carried away on his galloping horse. They didn't carry many brown books in their library because they weren't popular among the all-male population, but the few they had were gems.

Dean didn't give a damn what number was on his chest and he didn't understand the attachment Gabriel had for them. He ate the rest of his breakfast quietly and decided that Cas looked mighty fine donning five twenty-nine twenty-nine. Dean felt good being branded by Castiel's two-six-four-three-five as well. After breakfast, Dean addressed Cas on their way to the library, "You took my shirt?"

"It was an accident."

"You realize I'm going to have to take that off you today."

Castiel shot Dean a coquettish glance. "It would be wrong for you not to."

* * *

The aches Dean felt in his body were not as sharp or painful as he had imagined they would be, but he was slower than usual that day. He worked casually and carefully, reliving every hot moment from last night in his mind as he labored. Without any warning, Castiel approached Dean and began to unbutton his shirt just before their lunch hour. Dean inched away in surprise, checking the library to see if anyone was around to catch sight of them.

"Relax, Dean. I'm just taking my shirt back. 'Not in public' was one of your rules, wasn't it?" Castiel asked.

"We've skirted that line," Dean reminded Cas. "Very closely."

Castiel pulled the cotton away from Dean's shoulders to reveal a plain white, sleeveless undershirt. Cas paused, wondering if the undershirt was also his, and then was distracted by Dean's bullet wound scar that was only just visible around the edges of his undershirt. With fascination, Cas watched his skin prickle from the air. Dean shivered.

"You cold?"

Dean reddened, knowing that his nipples were hard. The library wasn't well insulated at all. "You're taking my clothes off during winter time, what do you think?"

"Were you very cold last night?"

Dean's less than complete state of dress and his memories from last night made him feel particularly vulnerable to Castiel's question. Castiel was a handsome furnace. Dean had longed for his heat through the night and when he had first awoken. One of the things that had made it so difficult for him to leave his bed that morning had been the chill. "It's always fucking cold in this place."

Castiel began to unbutton his own shirt and Dean joined in the endeavor with his eyes focused on Castiel's chest. "I don't feel it that strongly," Cas admitted.

Dean perked up at the new tidbit about Cas. He wasn't surprised by the detail because he still held on to his belief that Castiel was a Soviet immigrant, used to the mountains and the cold. With a smile in his eyes, Dean suggested, "I should wear both of our shirts then."

The thought of Cas working all day in only his undershirt was a happy one for Dean.

When they succeeded in undoing all of the buttons of Castiel's shirt, Castiel reached out to pull Dean near. Cas was susceptible to the beautiful brightness of Dean's eyes and sensitive to any discomfort he might feel. He had the incredible desire to place Dean next to a fire, but there were no fireplaces to be had in the penitentiary. Instead, Cas tried to warm him with friction from his hands. Up and down, his hands moved over Dean's scarred skin. As good as it felt, Dean was indignant about this treatment. "Cut it out, you sap. I've been cold before. I'm a man, God damn it! I've been in all sorts of bad weather."

Dean remembered having been caught in the rain during the invasions of Italy. He had marched through mud, carried packs weighted down by water, and slept in sopping wet clothing for weeks. Long before the war, Dean had been a man built to endure. Dean remembered having lived out of the family car as a boy and of clutching Sam close at night to protect him and keep him warm because they had grown up with a father that hadn't always been successful at keeping a roof over their heads. He remembered the wind that had torn at his young face during the day and ruined his hands as he broke his back doing odd jobs for strangers to supplement whatever his father earned. In those moments, another person had never comforted Dean. He had only ever been the one to warm Sam up at night, just as Cas was doing to him now.

When Castiel stopped rubbing his arms and back, Dean didn't move away from him. He wanted to hold him back and to stay warm, but they were not in the right place for that. To his ear, Dean whispered, "We should have a smoke."

They quietly exchanged shirts and Castiel pulled out one of his cigarettes. Now that he didn't have to barter them for a gift for Dean, he didn't have to be as careful about rationing them. They would share a single cigarette anyway because Cas still liked to pass indirect kisses with Dean through the paper and tobacco. Dean revealed his treasured Zippo lighter and raised it to the smoke between Castiel's lips. The spark and the flame set an alluring glow upon Castiel's face.

Dean wouldn't light a cigarette with a match like a civilian. He would only use the familiar, much loved metal lighter that reminded him of his military service and of all of the brothers he'd made and loved. The lighter in Dean's hands was one of the only things he had bartered with Gabriel to obtain. It was the lighter he had carried to prison, and he paid Gabriel for more fluid whenever it ran out.

Castiel drew a long drag and blew the smoke in Dean's face. "Why do you always do that? I can light them myself."

"You're my honorary brother," Dean replied, taking a deep breath of the air surrounding Cas. He tapped Castiel's forehead with his lighter. "This is a soldier's lighter, sweetheart. If we're gonna have smokes, we've gotta smoke like kings."

Dean drew from the cigarette, enjoying its warmth and Castiel's nearness. It dawned on Castiel that Dean had only begun giving him such special treatment after getting out of solitary. He didn't light anyone else's cigarettes. Cas stroked the lighter in Dean's hand with the pad of his thumb. "I didn't know that."

"You're not up on current affairs, I get that. That's why I'm here." Dean took a pause to transfer the cig back to Cas. "Yeah, we all got these. Sammy's got one too."

"I don't think I'm worthy of it, Dean. I'm not a soldier."

Dean contemplated Castiel for a moment. Sometimes he honestly forgot that Castiel wasn't a military man. Something about him was inherently tough, loyal, and warrior-like. Since neither of them knew much about his past, it was possible Castiel had been a soldier and he just didn't remember. "Sure you are," Dean said, "You'd fight for what you believe in, wouldn't you? You'd fight to protect someone you care about."

Castiel could see the sunny brush Dean was using to paint his service. Dean was silent about almost everything about the war even after having known Cas for over a year and having had many opportunities to talk about it. If being a soldier was so noble and glamorous, he expected Dean would have had more to say on the topic. "Is that what being a soldier is to you?"

After a distinct pause, Dean gave an answer that was surprising in its honesty. "It's part of it. The rest is a lot of orders and a lot of getting blown up. But that brotherhood, it's what makes us."

Castiel took another pull from the cigarette, but this time he drew Dean in slowly for a kiss to exhale the smoke directly into his mouth. Dean had never shared a cigarette with his brothers in arms like this, and the contact made his body burn. When they parted, Dean blew gentle curls of steamy smoke against Castiel's lips. For some moments they completely forgot about the stick of tobacco in favor of sharing smoky, heated kisses.

Three men entered the library at that time, which was the only reason Dean pulled away. They had perfected evading the eyes of others by knowing every space in the library and how often each space was usually occupied. They were fortunate that there were so many tall, stocked shelves because they usually had enough time to hear someone enter to compose themselves before they were seen. Dean took the cigarette and was about to leave to go about his business, but he stopped to search Castiel's shirt pocket. "My cufflink! Thieving son of a bitch."

* * *

Since Dean's birthday, Dean and Castiel had been closer than usual. They decided the lubricant would be rationed because Cas didn't want to wear Dean out and they had to make it last. Dean was still slightly sore on Friday. On that Friday, they spent a great deal of time neglecting work to spend time in the storage room. They made love as they had in the past, with impassioned mouths, fervent caresses, and an abundance of intense friction. By the time they were exhausted from sex, many of Dean's scars were accompanied by marks of love. Castiel had deliberately lavished the insides of Dean's thighs with sweet kisses and sucks because they were marred by irregular scars the Winchester would never explain.

Castiel's dark hair, as always, had ended up in complete disarray. Dean could only kiss Castiel for so long before he was compelled to weave his fingers in his hair. Castiel loved the way Dean stroked his scalp in gentle motions as if he believed Castiel wouldn't notice the fetish he had for his hair if he touched him very softly. Castiel's hand teased the spot of Dean he adored before settling on Dean's backside as the Winchester rested on top of him on the floor of the storage room.

"What does it matter, Cas? If we work or don't work…" Dean breathed into the other man's collarbone. "We could go out there and fuck up all the books on purpose and it wouldn't make a lick of difference."

"We always could." Castiel shrugged. "It would give us something to do."

"Or we could just burn it all," Dean sniggered. It wasn't the first time Dean had contemplated arson, nor the first time he'd mentioned it. "There's so much paper in there. I've got a lighter. It would burn up good."

Castiel tilted his head to look at Dean. He caressed his hand up his body and stroked the nape of his neck.

"We should burn everything," Dean said. "Would you be in on it?"

Castiel thought for a moment, but they both knew what his answer would ultimately be. "Of course."

They didn't burn down the library that day, but they did ignore responsibility to keep each other satiated in a warm, loving embrace. When Dean went to bed that night, something unexpected happened. After so many months free of them, Dean had a dream.

When he closed his eyes that night, Dean saw his kitchen as it had been before being covered in blood. He visualized the vivid yellow of the walls and the solid white of the cabinets in such detail that, for a moment, he was certain that he was back in his home in Iowa. The wooden table with the red top surrounded by four red and white checkered chairs sat in the middle of the kitchen a few feet away from the rustic blue back door of the house. Lacy white curtains hung over the little window on the door and over the window above the kitchen sink like sugary veils of royal icing. Lisa had decorated the kitchen to look permanently like the Fourth of July, and Dean forgot that anything terrible could have ever happened in such a place. The daffodil walls, the rose and white seating, and the forget-me-not door created such a bouquet of striking color that Dean did not notice he was not alone until the sound of chopping compelled him to notice the presence of another.

Wearing a red apron over a blue dress that had white polka dots, Lisa was preparing something at the kitchen counter. Her legs were bare because she had donated every last one of her stockings to the war effort. Lisa did her hair like Rita Hayworth, letting her dark hair tumble down the left side of her face in glamorous curls. One of the things Dean had always admired about Lisa was her complete lack of vanity and her genuine nature. She didn't need to do much to be beautiful and she often disregarded the conventions of beauty for comfort. Those stockings had made their way out of their home delightfully, for more than one reason. At the moment, she wasn't wearing any shoes.

When she turned to Dean, he was startled by how normal her eyes were. They were the dark brown of chocolate rather than the solid black of evil he had become accustomed to seeing in his dreams. A smile as bright as the moon erupted on her face at the sight of him. "Oh! Hi, Dean. I'm making a pie. Your favorite."

Dean inched near the woman cautiously without acknowledging her because he was afraid she would turn into a raging bull at any instant. That fear was evident on his face. _This isn't real. It's a dream._ If he concentrated on how the situation before him wasn't real, he thought perhaps he wouldn't be there and he would be safe. He might even wake up. Dean's focus was broken when Lisa began to pour liberal amounts of white from a large container into the pie filling. Upon seeing the Umbrella Girl on the side of the container, Dean cried in horror, "Lisa, that's salt!"

He was still too afraid to touch her, but Lisa did pause and turn to Dean, revealing her eyes to still be normal. She had covered a mound of chopped apples with salt. Disturbed, Dean questioned her. "Why are you putting so much salt in the pie?"

"Salt's good for you." Lisa smiled in return as if there was nothing wrong, and continued to douse the pie filling with salt until the container in her hand was empty. The pie filling was now almost more salt than it was apple. Dean rubbed his face and when he looked back at the wife he knew to be deceased, she was already putting the pie in the oven. Promptly, she faced him, holding the pie cutter in Dean's direction. Red flags flew and alarms blared within his dream-self and he backed away in fear, toppling over a chair.

"What are you doing?" Lisa asked, frowning.

"J-Just stop. Right there. Just stop," Dean begged, lifting his hands to protect himself. "You're going to stab me. Just don't. Don't do it this time."

"Why would I stab you?"

"You're Dream Lisa. Dream Lisa always stabs me," Dean panicked.

"What makes you think I'm Dream Lisa?"

"I killed you, that's why! This is a dream." Dean could sense his chest moving up and down with dread. Following more of Dean's adamant urging, Lisa put the pie cutter down on the breakfast table. She appeared to be very worried for him and was completely lacking in the rage and hatred he had come to associate with her.

"It's okay, Dean. Sit down, please," Lisa entreated Dean and lifted the toppled over chair so he could sit. He obeyed even though every previous experience he'd had warned him to do otherwise. "Sam's going to be fine," she said, "You worry about him too much."

Only in a dream could a total change of subject feel so ordinary. When it came to Sam, Dean didn't understand the phrase 'too much.' "I can't help it. He's my brother."

Lisa looked down at the floor, her expression indecipherable. The entire time he dreamt, she never made a move to touch him. She always kept a safe distance away from him like there was an unseen buffer surrounding his body. She was so much like the Lisa he'd known long ago that Dean stopped fighting whatever was happening in the dream. "Have you been taking care of Ben?"

The question had been spoken softly, sadly. "I can't, Lisa," Dean replied. "I'm in prison."

"You _promised_," Lisa cried and her eyes swelled with emotion. She had always taken care of so much and asked so little of Dean.

"How?" Dean answered. The kitchen remained as bright as ever, but it was the extreme opposite of how Dean felt. "How am I supposed to do that when I'm not free?"

In distress, she raised her voice, "You figure something out!"

"He's with your sister," Dean explained and Lisa appeared to calm down at the statement. "Everyone looks after Ben. Everyone, that is… but me."

"Well, fine, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook." Lisa hated arguing with Dean. She always had, so anytime she expressed displeasure, Dean was moved by it. In the next instant, Lisa regained her easy attitude and teased Dean. "And, please, don't let Gabriel touch you."

Dean stuttered, "W-What? Why not?"

"He's supposed to be with Charlie." Lisa covered her mouth and giggled as if she'd just told a hilarious joke.

"How do you know about Gabriel? And Charlie?" Dean shot back and Lisa shrugged.

"I know everything. Now eat your pie before it gets cold."

In far less time than it should have taken for Lisa's salt and apple pie to finish baking, it had been baked and placed in front of Dean without him being aware of it. He looked down at it and it was unreal in its perfection. Flawless. Little waves of heat radiated from its surface. Lisa's pie was the dessert incarnation of the sun, sitting upon the red sky of their table. Dean reached for the fork that had been waiting for him to take his first bite. The silver was less than a whisper away from breaking its crust when he woke up.

The morning bell rang with its characteristically loud, whining buzz. He heard the buzz crash into his dream and he lived reality and his dream world simultaneously for a quick second before his eyelids flipped apart. The sight of his cell after his dream of Lisa made him feel a sadness so complete that he felt weighed down by it. Dean woke up realizing how good Lisa had been, and how colorless his life had been since he'd killed her. The walls around him, his clothing, and everything else that filled his world was so gray and plain in comparison to the house he had once owned and the responsible, kind woman that had managed it with love.

Lisa had always been secondary to Sam. He had always preferred having a beer with his brother while watching the stars, to spending time with Lisa. He had been more proud of his car than he had been of her. That morning, more than ever, he hated himself for not having loved her more. He would never see that glowing kitchen again and he would never see another polka dot dress.

_Her eyes were brown_.

He left his cell in such a hurry that he didn't realize the little bag of magic he kept at his bed had unraveled during the night and spilled its contents all over the floor. Dean was so agitated that he bumped into Cas gracelessly while filing into the line to get his breakfast. Castiel steadied him with a gentle touch.

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel said and his eyes were a blue so deep they were as unreal as the pie of his dreams. His eyes were always beautiful, but today they were vibrant and Dean had never been so happy to see a living person. He had trouble recognizing how something in the real world could be as flawless as something in a dream.

"Mornin', Cas." Dean swallowed, unsure if he was really awake or not. Lisa continued to haunt him even then. Dean was off the entire morning. At breakfast, he kept staring back and forth between Charlie and Gabriel. Dean's staring was so unconcealed and bizarre that Gabriel remarked on it. Dean responded to him with uncertainty. "Are you… supposed to be together?"

Charlie snorted, almost spitting out his coffee and Gabriel laughed. "Have you been smoking some funny cigarettes?" Charlie asked. "If you have, you should really share. Gabriel and I always sit together."

"Oh… Yeah, I guess you do." Dean frowned, wondering if that was what the new Dream Lisa meant. It had sounded like the new Dream Lisa didn't like Gabriel making passes at him, but it was always hard to make sense out of dreams. As he made his way to the library, Dean wondered why she had never mentioned Cas.

Dean worked vigorously that day because he was trying to get over the disturbing feeling he had from his dream. His waking world was so dull that it was easy for him to forget the all colors. What he couldn't shake was the feeling of emptiness he had. He took a break and spread out on the table that always served as his makeshift couch.

He had taken his rubber band ball into his hands to throw it up into the air and catch it as a diversion for his thoughts. Dean had made the rubber band ball after making a paperclip curtain that hung by the back entrance. The paperclip curtain had been a time-consuming project last year that ended in an ultimately useful warning device to alert them if other men were entering from the back entrance. The paperclip curtain made noise and the rubber band ball was fun to throw. They each had important functions. Dean's frustration grew as the ball refused to do its duty of wiping his mind of the life he'd had on the outside. He couldn't stop thinking about the house, Lisa, and Ben.

Lisa had been born pretty. She'd grown up hearing that her prettiness was all she would ever need because it meant someone incredible and wealthy would undoubtedly fall in love with her. She had felt that she should have been satisfied, even grateful, for those words, but she hadn't been. Discouraged from working and going to college, she had begun to seek out trouble and danger. She had wanted to do things and feel things that were beyond pretty or the opposite of pretty, and that was how she found herself with a man that hadn't wanted to settle down anymore than she had. She hadn't been disowned and branded as a whore until she got pregnant. Lisa had been so disgraced that she had no option but to run away from Michigan with nothing.

Iowa was the land where she had learned to lie. She told the story of how she had been married and how her husband had been killed in an accident so she could find work and support for herself and her baby. Lisa had known a widow was far more sympathetic than a woman that had been reckless. And yet, she had been drawn to Dean because he was tough and wild. He had been a copy of the men she should have learned to avoid. He was dirty, he cursed, he didn't go to church, he was blunt to the point of rudeness, and he was cocky to a fault. He had been exactly all of the things she had always wanted to be. Dean had been lonely, but free. He also had a family, a job, and a house. Dean had everything she desired and everything she needed. Lisa had been certain Dean would be different because his smiles to Ben were genuine and because Dean babied and cared for his brother with a love and complete acceptance that was a stark contrast to what her sister had done for her. Lisa's sister had told her that she was stupid and that everything had been her fault.

Dean had guessed her past before she had ever explained it and it hadn't bothered him. He had been convinced he was soon to die. Dean hadn't wanted to go to war without knowing what it was like to have a family of his own, so he had married Lisa, grateful that she already had a child that he could love.

Dean squeezed the ball in his hands. He hurled it against the wall furiously, and it shot from the wall to the floor and back to his hands. He was still so angry and so displeased that Lisa's end had been so much worse than the rough life she had lived as a young woman.

Castiel had taken to the front desk to work on a project he had been putting off for a while. He didn't mind Dean's silence or the violent crashes of his rubber ball against the wall by where he stood because Cas was deep in thought. Looking at the calm, disinterested Castiel aggravated Dean. Like the ball, Castiel was supposed to alleviate his dissatisfaction. "Cas!"

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel answered, without looking up from his work. He had a pencil in his mouth and was looking as handsome as always.

"What're you doing?"

Castiel exhaled a breath of impatience and flicked his eyes to the side in that famous expression of his that exemplified exasperation. He answered with the obvious. "Working."

"Come talk to me."

"I'm busy."

Dean sighed a sigh that could have been heard from every corner of the library. He went back to chucking his ball into the air and catching it, until he lost all patience and turned to scribble something on a piece of paper. When a paper ball crashed right into Castiel's forehead, the blue-eyed male showed no signs of being surprised. With composure, he reached for the paper and unraveled it.

_ I'm bored._

Castiel fixed his eyes on Dean. "Am I supposed to do something about this?"

Dean nodded in the affirmative and Castiel ignored him in favor of doing his work. If Castiel wasn't going to talk to him, Dean would talk to Cas. Whether he listened or not was not Dean's concern. "I used to play baseball with Sam."

_Sam's going to be fine._

The only positive thing he could glean from his dream was what Lisa had said about Sam. He had no logical reason to believe her, but he did. The belief that Sam would be fine pulled him together. Dean sat up on the edge of the table and pretended like he was going to hurl the rubber band ball directly at Cas. "Sammy was about eleven. We were in school for a few months before Dad moved us again and that school made us pick a sport. I picked baseball."

Castiel was listening because he couldn't fail to listen when Dean talked about his life. Dean continued. "Sammy picked baseball 'cause I picked baseball."

"Were you a pitcher?" Castiel asked. From what he saw of the nearly plaster-cracking fierceness of his hurls of the rubber band ball, Castiel could easily imagine Dean on the field, tapping a foot on the pitcher's mound.

"I've got a damn good arm, yeah, but I could play it all. Not Sammy. He was no good." Dean scrunched up his nose at the fond memory. "When I got kicked off the team, Sammy quit with me."

"Why did you get kicked off the team if you were so good?" Castiel had abandoned his pencil on the counter.

"I missed too many practices and games. I didn't give a damn. I missed school all the time. Playin' hooky or working. The other kids were all snobs anyway. I didn't wanna play with them."

Dean reclined back on the tabletop, resting his head on the stack of books he always used as a pillow. He wished he could play baseball that very instant – not with strangers, but with Sam. A period of silence passed so Castiel went back to concentrating on the inventory book in front of him. Then, Dean broke the calm again. "You ever think about…" Dean started softly, "How we've got nothin'? How we'll never have anything?"

Dean heard Castiel's book shut and he heard his steps approach. Castiel's face was soon peering down at him, expressing solemn interest. "No cars, no families, no houses, no women, no things of any kind. I don't have Sam. You don't even have your memories."

"Every man has something," Castiel said. He didn't want his memories, but he didn't feel like pointing that out to Dean in that moment. "You have your memories, very good ones."

"What do you have, Cas?"

Now and then, Castiel wasn't sure if Dean was purposely obtuse. Cas was staring at everything he had and everything he wanted. "Faith," Castiel said, "And my mind. As long as a man has his mind, he has something."

Dean winked at Castiel. "For a second there, I thought you were going to say me."

Castiel pushed Dean's book pillow out from under his head and Dean cried out complaints as he was knocked off his balance onto the table. Cas pretended to go back to work and Dean watched him with intensity. Castiel did have something else. He had a kind of fortitude that Dean didn't think he could ever emulate. He could be sarcastic and prudish, but Castiel was almost always composed. Dean wanted a piece of his mind so that he could absorb whatever awareness he had that made him so naturally tranquil and in control.

Castiel couldn't fake working for much longer. He returned to Dean and threw something soft on his chest. Perplexed, Dean gathered the items in his hands. They were a pair of fingerless navy blue knit gloves. "What the hell is this?"

"_Things_," Castiel replied, failing to sound as annoyed as he desired. Dean happened to express a desire for things the same day Castiel had been planning on giving him something. He watched as the Winchester sniffed the gloves apprehensively. "I thought you would recognize what gloves are."

"Yeah, I get that, but why are you giving them to me? Where'd they come from?" Dean tried one on and wiggled his fingers gleefully. His knuckles had been cracked from the cold and he expected these gloves would help.

"I found them years ago. I had forgotten about them until you mentioned being cold. I don't need them, so, naturally…"

"Well, this ain't exactly what I meant by 'things.'" Dean teased. "This is still pretty much nothin' in the grand scheme of things."

"You realize how unbelievably unappreciative you are?"

"All I'm sayin' is Charlie gave me cufflinks. Gold ones."

Castiel glared at Dean for a hot second or two. "If you want to be someone's kept woman, I suggest you seduce a guard. Guards are the only people around here with belongings of value."

Dean laughed and reached out to grab Castiel's shirt before the man could storm off. "I'm raggin' you. These are good. They're great! I like the color. Thanks, babe."

Castiel grabbed Dean's chin hard and gave him a kiss on his eyebrow. "You irritate me."

"You got any scarves?"

* * *

That Sunday, Dean accompanied Castiel to the chapel for service. Dean usually avoided the chapel, but he had a strong desire to remain by Castiel's side that week. Gabriel never attended chapel, claiming he'd been to enough services to last him for at least three lifetimes already. Charlie wasn't religious, so it was just the pair that attended with a few other inmates. Truthfully, Castiel preferred Dean not to go with him to services. Dean was a big enough obstruction in his relationship with God already.

When Castiel thought about what he wanted and needed, he thought of Dean well before he thought of God, and that was an issue he tried to deal with at chapel. It was an issue that was difficult to resolve when Dean's warm body was sitting next to him, distracting him from all things holy.

Whenever Dean wasn't making snide remarks under his breath during the sermons, he would wear defiant smirks or make aggravated faces at anything he believed to be 'bullshit.' In other words, there wasn't a second that passed without Dean expressing some form of dissent. The service was not long that Sunday. At its conclusion, all the other men left, leaving Cas, Dean, and the convict-preacher in the chapel. The preacher, known as Talbot, approached Dean and greeted him kindly, "It's good to see you here again, Dean."

"Fuck off, Talbot. I ain't here for you and I ain't here for God. I'm here for the man that sodomizes me so good. _Nightly_," Dean purred and wagged his eyebrows. On every occasion, the Winchester was purposefully crude to the preacher because the uptight, arrogant man with pale, soft hands was easily perturbed by vulgarity. After hearing Talbot's sermon on the depravity of sodomy and homosexuality, Dean made a point incite the holy man as much as possible on both topics. He hadn't needed to hear that sermon to hate him. Dean thought he was a phony that had lined his pockets taking advantage of the vulnerability of others. He thought a 'rich preacher' should have been an oxymoron.

"You hang by a slender thread," Talbot replied through clenched teeth before leaving.

Dean grumbled to Cas when they were left alone. "I don't know what he did, but I just know it's something awful. I'd put all my chips on rape. Little boys or little girls. It's always one or the other with these guys, isn't it? When I find out, I'm gonna smash his face in 'till it matches the ugly of his insides."

"Could you avoid using words of violence here?" Castiel urged, torn from his silent prayer by Dean's comments, as always. Asking for peace while being around Dean was a futile effort, but Cas made the attempt anyway. Today, Dean appeared genuinely sincere in his apology.

"Oh, sorry," He replied. He cast his gaze to the massive cross in front of them and crossed himself in a sloppy gesture. Dean was never consistent in how he made the sign of the cross, and that was something that brought Cas amusement. "I'm sorry, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and the…the other one."

"The Father!" Castiel blurted out.

"I know that. I was pullin' your leg," Dean teased and looked back at the cross to finish his apology. "To the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, apologies for talking about sodomy in your blessed house. We don't do it nightly. We've only done it once, but you fellas know that, what with y'all being all knowing and everything, right?"

Castiel pressed his eyes closed and again tried to finish his prayer. He regularly prayed for guidance to be the best man he could be, but he also prayed for Gabriel, Charlie, Sam, and Dean. He prayed the hardest for Sam and Dean. Cas asked God to give Sam safe places to rest, to give him peace of mind, to remind him that he was loved, and to help him return home. His prayers for Dean were similar, but more personal.

Cas prayed for Dean's safety as well, but he also specifically prayed for his mental and emotional health. He wanted Dean to hope and to know love once more. If something should ever happen to Castiel, he wanted Dean to be protected and for him to never feel pain again. Dean had already suffered and continued to suffer too much, in ways that Castiel knew the Winchester hid. The thought of Dean in agony for any reason was more than Castiel could bear. Cas had seen the face of Dean when he was broken on the outside and on the inside and he did not wish to see him like that again even from beyond the grave. The matter was so important that he had long ago begun to pray for Dean more often than he prayed for himself or anyone else.

All the time Cas spent in prayer, Dean spent daydreaming. After a few moments of speculating about the haughty preacher, Dean interrupted Cas a second time. "Don't pretend you didn't like it. Me ruffling Talbot's feathers. I saw you grin."

Castiel pried opened eye, "No, you didn't."

"I heard it," Dean smirked.

"That's not even possible. You can't 'hear' grins."

When Castiel prayed, Dean thought he looked absolutely precious. He was loveable when he was lost in concentration, talking to his imaginary friend. While Castiel resumed praying, Dean turned around to make sure they were totally alone before sliding a little too near to his friend. Dean figured Cas had to be nearly done with his prayer so he allowed his fingers to feel over the cotton covering Castiel's back just above his belt. His hands were happily gloved and mischievous. In the silence, Cas' face burned with heat. Dean made his intentions clear with soft words of temptation. "Hey, Cas, if we're going to Hell anyway… you suppose another sin would hurt?"

"W-What?" Castiel was not affronted by Dean's words as much as he was appalled by how inclined he felt to partake in the sin presented to him. Ripped from concentration by the fingers at his waist and the sharp green eyes upon him, Cas' mind was flooded with thoughts of doing anything and everything that Dean wanted to do in the chapel. Castiel tried to reason a way that Dean's proposition would not be a desecration, knowing well that he was wrong to defend such indecent behavior. When Cas turned, he was sitting thigh to thigh with a Dean that looked thrilled by the prospect of fucking him in the chapel. Dean's arm was resting on the back of the pew behind Cas and his lust was a potent wave, rolling liberally from his body. "Is there any universe in which you would respect the church?" Castiel asked softly.

"Yeah," Dean eased closer and let a gloved hand creep onto Castiel's thigh. "The universe where preachers don't find themselves in jail." Dean took his chances and bent over to press their lips together. A jolt of pleasure passed through Cas' body as Dean gently caressed his hand up his leg and as he continued to kiss him with passion. Castiel couldn't bring himself to stop returning those kisses because Dean demonstrated how fiercely he wanted Cas with every one. He privately cursed his body for being so responsive to Dean in a way that clouded his judgment. He kissed Dean back, eager and fearful of what the other man would do next. Perhaps even Dean was self-conscious about fulfilling his own sinful fantasy because they did nothing but lock lips in the chapel for an extended period of time. All thoughts of prayer were obliterated. Castiel wanted to be pushed down on the pew and touched more, but, the instant the sound of the door opening rang in their ears, Castiel hastily shoved Dean away.

The inmate that had entered threw his hands up and complained. "God damn it to hell. I missed the sermon again!"

"Yes, you did," Castiel answered, powerful shame displayed on his face. Cas ran out of the chapel without another word and the stranger sat down at the pew nearest to the cross, completely unaware of the steamy kisses that had been shared in the space only moments ago. In a strange moment, Dean could almost feel himself being watched by the eye of God. He looked up at the ceiling, expecting to find a disapproving holy spotlight aimed at him, but there was nothing but wood.

* * *

Castiel was reticent and irascible the rest of the day. Normally, they rested together on Sundays in a relaxing atmosphere of tranquility. Dean had destroyed the calm of that Sunday. When he sat to play the guitar in the yard, Castiel wouldn't sit beside him. In fact, Castiel was involved in activities completely removed from Dean. Gabriel appeared and interrupted the music to snarl at Dean, "What did you do to my precious baby brother?"

"Nothing!" Dean replied. With shaky hands, he began to tune the guitar even though it was already tuned. Gabriel grabbed his wrist to stop him. "I…Nothing. It wasn't anything _that _bad. While we were in the chapel, I might have, um…"

Dean scratched behind his ear and made a shifty, guilt-ridden face.

"Ugh, stop!" Gabriel knew all he needed to know. He tore the guitar away from Dean. "You aren't going to touch Mary today. Not with those dirty hands."

Gabriel, the self ascribed keeper of Mary, stormed away and gave other men the privilege of playing. Anguished, Dean searched for Castiel, intent on apologizing because he knew that was what he should do. He found Castiel in his cell, curled up with a copy of _The Prince_. When Castiel saw him, he exhaled a long, aggravated breath.

Dean felt Castiel's disapproval so acutely that it stunned him out of words. The blue-eyed male put his book down and regarded Dean. "What do you want, Dean?"

"For you to stop looking at me like that."

Castiel gave him the look he had been giving Dean harder in response. Somehow, even his narrow-eyed disdain was alluring to Dean. Baffled, Dean sputtered, "What _is_ that face you're making? I can't tell if you're givin' me eyes or just really unhappy. Or both. See? This is how a fella gets confused!"

"You weren't confused. You were being deliberately provocative."

"It's just a chapel, Cas. It's not the Pearly Gates." Dean had gone to apologize, but he had started an argument. Even at the Pearly Gates, he would have wanted Cas and he didn't think there was anything wrong with that.

"You don't even try to understand."

"Hold on a second. You don't buy into what Talbot says, do you? About what we do being sinful? For fuck's sake, Cas, if we do it here or we do it there, we're still doing it either way and God's gonna see."

"That's not it. It is the chapel. The chapel is a part of something that matters to me," Castiel said. Dean had already begun to cast his eyes up dismissively. When he wasn't being intentionally offensive on the subject of his faith, Dean was nonchalant to a degree that provoked Castiel to his limits. He could practically read Dean's mind on the subject through just his body language. In a moment of frustration, Castiel got up and raised his voice. "Pay attention! I've told you before that my faith is important to me and you don't care. It's the only thing that I have that hasn't been sullied. It's the last thing I have! Do you understand that? The pure love of God is something I need. You tamper with it, on purpose, for a laugh. You get your kicks defiling what's sacred."

The sheepish look on Dean's face suggested Castiel was spot-on. At the same time that he felt thoroughly chastised and wounded, Dean was also aroused by Cas' fury. For once, Dean did not appreciate the tingly feeling Cas gave him because inappropriate arousal was the source of their current predicament. "Do you forgive me?"

"You didn't apologize," Castiel grumbled.

"I was going to… but, I think you're wrong." Dean began. He gave a cautious shrug and went on, somewhat doubtfully. "Our thing is pure. Who's to say it's not as pure as whatever you have with… uh, God?"

"What?"

"Hey, alright, I got a theory here. Let's pretend God is real for a sec. If God is real, he's making me feel all this stuff 'cause he designed everything, including me. So, me wanting you is just God inside of me telling me to want you, right?" Dean contemplated his next words before speaking. "Instinct, Cas. It's the purest thing out there and my instinct is…you."

Cas cocked his head to the side, in awe of the words spoken by Dean. He wasn't sure if he should be insulted or amazed. Long ago, Castiel had taught Dean his favorite passage from the Bible. Whether Dean remembered it or not, he was basically translating it through his particular Winchester lens. "Love comes from God…" Cas whispered.

_God is love, and all who live in love live in God, and God lives in them._

"I'm right." Dean straightened up in a cocky, self-assured posture, thinking he had come up with the perfect loophole to excuse all of his desires.

Castiel felt love for Dean. His love for Dean was what he thought could bridge his path to redemption, but he could not fathom the thought of Dean returning that love. Tiptoeing near the idea made Cas jittery. Dean was talking about lust. Lust was not love. Yet, everything they did together were acts of love. "That doesn't mean you should – not in the chapel!"

"Why not? Before the chapel, there was just a patch of grass. Now it's just a patch of grass with a lot of wood piled on top."

"Will you ever stop being so difficult all the time?" Castiel huffed. "Not in the chapel. It's like your rule of 'not in public.'"

"Okay, okay. Fair enough," Dean agreed, knowing he had pushed his luck way too far that day.

"Good," Castiel answered. He retreated back to his bed and searched out his book. He was done talking to Dean, but Dean wasn't done being near him. Dean settled down on Cas' bed, looking keen on staying for a long while. "What are you doing?"

Dean glanced around the cell with a mixture of bafflement and annoyance. "What's it look like? What, am I still in the doghouse? I thought we were good."

"I was reading."

"Well, quit reading, egghead. You read too much. It's a day of rest. You ought to be resting." Dean said. When Cas continued to stare at him uncertainly, Dean went on, "It's in the Bible!"

His fingers pried the book from Castiel's resisting hands to set it aside. Dean knew Cas had read nearly every book in the library and he had seen Castiel read that particular book before. Cas had spent most of the day being angry with him and Dean was eager to mend the rift by any means possible. He wanted to talk to him, and he couldn't if Cas was reading. Dean also wanted to be the focus of his attention in a positive light.

In resignation, Castiel leaned his back against the wall of his cell that was adjacent to his bed. He misread Dean's proximity as a sign that Dean wanted to continue what they had started in the chapel and he was not happy about it. They read together all the time. It was a form of resting they often enjoyed but today Cas didn't think he could enjoy it while Dean was around. Dean leaned up on the wall next to him, letting his legs hang over the edge of his bed.

"Listen. Sometimes I don't get you, but you are my best friend," Dean admitted quietly, with effort. Cas was the first best friend he'd ever had, apart from Sam. Dean had acquaintances and good friends, but rarely people like Cas. He never tired of Cas and he loved arguing with him as much as he enjoyed having frivolous conversations with him. He would die for Cas and he was certain Cas would die for him.

Cas looked away when Dean spoke. Dean didn't often verbalize his feelings so Castiel was moved by his confession, but he wasn't moved enough to be in a good mood about it. "I'm so sorry, Dean," Cas answered sarcastically. "I'm sorry for being _so_ confusing. If only there was something I could do about it."

_Like tell you when I don't like something only to have you ignore me._

"You could start by telling me something about you," Dean replied in a firm, no-nonsense tone. At this, Cas regarded the Winchester with clear unease and surprise in his eyes. "So, you don't remember your life before this joint. You only remember the Bible, but what about after that? Is there some big fucking secret about your first 11 years here too? Before me? Not even Gabe, the blabbermouth, tells me shit about …a-anything! It'd be a lot easier for me to not piss you off if you gave me _something_."

Castiel swallowed. He had not been expecting the conversation to drift in this direction. "You're far more interesting than I am. My stories wouldn't interest you."

"Bull. Shit."

"I never tell you things because," Castiel hesitated, "I don't… I don't have any good stories, Dean."

"You have to have at least one. If not, tell me a bad story."

"About what?"

"God damn it, Cas. Anything!" Dean fumed. He knew what life in prison was, but he also knew a man couldn't live for eleven years anywhere without a single thing of note happening to him. Respecting Castiel's privacy, Dean had never specifically asked Cas to tell him what his crime was because he had expected Cas would tell in time, but he never did. Cas would speak of his favorite things and of things he disliked. He would discuss philosophy and books, but he wouldn't touch his own past. "How about the first guy you fucked? Tell me about that guy."

Castiel visibly tensed and Dean frowned. He thought that story had some potential to be positive because Castiel had somehow learned what he had learned to bring him pleasure. It had never entered his mind that Cas may have, at some point, been a rapist or that he may have hurt another man he'd had sex with. "Wait, he's not…He's not dead, is he?" Dean asked anxiously. "You didn't… did you?"

"He is dead. Murdered." Castiel exhaled a hefty, mournful sigh. "I didn't kill him. I wouldn't have."

"Oh, okay."

Castiel thought back to a time over a decade ago. Horrible as it was, this story was still one he could tell Dean if he omitted some details. "I passed my first year here in a daze. I was completely alone all of the time, and I liked it that way. I still couldn't comprehend what had happened to me. I didn't know who I was, but I was regarded as dangerous and insane. Not a soul would talk to me. So, I spent all my time thinking, reading, and praying. I didn't need anything else. I didn't want anything else."

When Castiel spoke, Dean listened with such attentiveness that the world around them disappeared. It had been the 1930s, some of the worst times in the country's history. The prison had been even more of a hellhole in that era than it was now. Yet, the outside was so bad that it wasn't much of an improvement from the inside. In prison, a man was guaranteed food and a roof over his head and sometimes that was enough to be better than what the free man had. Castiel remembered those times as dusty and gray.

"The only attention I ever got was the bad kind. I got into fights, but only when men challenged me. The challenges didn't last for very long. I put too many men in the infirmary. I didn't mean to… not all the time. I just didn't know my own strength."

"The guys left me alone for the most part. That is, until Raphael."

Immediately, Dean began to wonder if Raphael had been the first man Cas had fucked, but he didn't interrupt the story.

"He came here almost exactly one year after I did. He was tall and lean with dark hair and eyes. He never showed emotion. He was so hard-boiled he looked like you could break a nail on his skin. I didn't care about him at all until he started trouble here. Things were never the same after Raphael. To this day, I don't know what his agenda was, but he liked to polarize everyone. It was like he wanted to see blood for the sake of seeing blood. He must have been in a gang on the outside because he had a gang mentality. Cataloging the guys, fighting, and provoking them into fights. He wanted anarchy."

"Why the fuck?" Dean whispered.

"I didn't understand it. I never will. But, he wanted to challenge me. He thought taking me down would mean something," Castiel said remorsefully. He knew why it would have meant something. Cas had been regarded as the most evil inmate and killing Castiel would have boosted the status of his murderer. "There were a lot of guys that hated Raphael. Some of them, like me, just wanted to mind their own business. Some of them believed I would win in a showdown and just wanted to be on the winning side. That's how I met Hector."

"The meaning of 'insane' became clear to me that year. Raphael, Hector… Hector was this guy…" Cas furrowed his brows. "Volatile. Blond, blue-eyed. He was emotional and so eager to fight. He wasn't afraid of me either. He goaded me on, saying I shouldn't take shit from Raphael. That I could take him, and that I _should_."

Telling this story was exhausting for Castiel. He took a break to look at Dean and get a sense of his feelings. He couldn't imagine how Dean could think hearing his story could have any benefit. Yet, Dean wanted to hear more. Dean swallowed, licked his lips, and asked, "Is Hector the guy?"

"He's the one I fucked, yes. The first guy…" Cas ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of nervousness that he rarely exhibited. "It was awful. He was as extreme about sex as he was about everything else. He liked pain. It didn't feel good and he bled the first time… He bled a lot."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Dean squirmed beside Castiel, so thankful for the lubricant and Castiel's carefulness that he had no other words.

"I didn't know that would happen! W-With bare skin. He told me that was what he wanted. He cried and it was just so – so horrendous, but then he laughed. He _laughed_. How can someone laugh at that?"

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Hector, bent over a desk with tears stinging his eyes and a large, impish, and satisfied smile on his lips, entered Castiel's mind. His blonde hair had been sweaty and had covered half of his face so that Cas could only have a glimpse of his tears and his mad grin. Cas would never forget it. "But that was only part of our relationship. With Inias and some other guys, we would try to break up the gangs Raphael had built up. I thought we were helping, but it made things worse. There were fights every day. People got stabbed in the back and raped on the regular."

"Hector wasn't a bad guy, but he was overzealous. He wanted to believe in something and I guess he believed in me." Hector had been as eager to fight as he had been to give Cas blowjobs and his body. That was how he had showed his loyalty to Cas.

"I was a terrible leader. I had no idea what I was doing, but I resolved to be at least competent at having sex without causing pain. I told Hector he wasn't any good to me if he couldn't walk so we worked something out. That's how I learned what I know."

_Some of it_. Hector had been his first, but not his last.

"So how'd he die?" Dean cut in. Castiel couldn't tell a story like that without providing the ending.

"Stabbed, by one of Raphael's guys. Stabbed in the back, like so many others."

"Cas, I'm – "

"It's fine. It was bound to happen, I guess. Hector had become almost as bad at starting fights as Raphael. He never got to see the showdown he'd always wanted to take part in…"

"What happened? You got him, didn't you? You got Raphael."

After another long, drawn-out exhale, Castiel nodded. As he'd told his story, he hadn't been able to look at Dean for the majority of it. Now, Cas was picking the material of his pants, trying not to think about how easy it had been to end a life. "It came to that," Cas said. "Raphael didn't last for more than a couples of minutes. After a few days in the infirmary, he died."

_Shit_. Dean was now sorry that he'd asked him anything. If all of Castiel's stories were like this one, he thought that perhaps it was better for Cas to keep them to himself. Dean didn't judge Cas any worse for the story, but he could see how difficult it was for Cas to face what he'd lived. Dean gazed at him sympathetically. "It wasn't your fault, Cas. Sounds like this Raphael son of a bitch was asking for it."

"That day was a nightmare. It was chaos. A free-for-all. All I had wanted was peace… The rules were different after that – better – but I don't think the ends justified the means."

"Fuck that, Cas. If you didn't kill this guy, he would've killed you," Dean stated and, with some reservation, Castiel nodded in confirmation of the statement. "If someone's got a mind to kill you, you have a right to at least try to kill him first. That's how it works."

"I didn't feel anything when he died. I didn't feel what I thought I should have felt," Cas whispered. More than anything, in that moment, when Raphael had been bloodied and broken by his hands, Castiel had been coolly fascinated by how fragile human bodies were. Someone as mean and seemingly immortal as the tough Raphael had crumbled in seconds. Castiel had trembled with the life-snubbing power he had. Cas tried to explain. "Just relief. Maybe I was a little bit happy."

Dean leaned forward on his knees and thought of a time in his life that was almost identical to what Castiel was trying to describe. In a surprise fight, he had stabbed an ambushing enemy soldier in his vital organ. Amazed, Dean had watched blood flow like a river all over his hands and arms. It had been a kill from close quarters, vicious and leaving an impression on him that he would have forever. If not for the color of his uniform, the man Dean had killed might have been mistaken for an American. But he hadn't been an Allied troop at all, and Dean had experienced the same awe of how quickly life could be extinguished from a body. "Relief is not the same thing as enjoying a kill. You didn't enjoy it, did you?"

"No."

"Then you're fine." Dean answered so decisively that he drew all of Castiel's attention. Castiel laughed a wry, unhappy laugh.

"I could be lying," Cas said.

"But you're not. You wouldn't lie to me."

Yet again, Castiel exhaled. "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"You always assume the best of me."

"'Cause I know you. Whatever happened then, that wasn't you," Dean replied with complete resolve. "That was something you had to be."

Castiel didn't believe him. Dean groaned and put his hand in Castiel's face, wiggling his fingers in his direction. "You're the bookworm that gives horrible presents, like smelly old gloves that don't even got all their fingers. I assume the best of you because you're my best fucking friend, like I said. God damn it, Cas. Don't you pay attention? You think I would be best friends with a lying, cold-blooded murdering rat bastard?"

"What if you are?"

"I ain't!"

"You're not…disgusted by me?"

"A little bit." Dean allowed for a pause just to make Cas fidget. "I'm kind of disgusted you can go through all of that and still not let me fuck you in a church."

The scandalized look on Castiel's face prompted Dean to grab the other man and squeeze him tight. "Not that again!" Cas hissed, "You – You're infuriating."

"I think you mean 'adorable,'" Dean responded with a cheeky grin. He pulled Castiel down on his bed and continued to hold him loosely. His lips found the space above Castiel's eyebrow.

"Dean, I'm not in the mood."

"Not in the mood for what? A nap?"

"You want to… _nap_ together?"

Dean chuckled and cast his eyes to the ceiling. "Not if you're going to say it like that. It's not napping together. It's just – the day of rest. Your story was so good it wore me out…made me sleepy. And now I don't feel like walking to my own bed."

Castiel was fairly certain he was being invited to cuddle, which was something that had never happened between them before without being preceded by sex. Hesitantly, Cas slung his arm around Dean. The bed was so small their bodies had to be overlapping in some way. Cas expected Dean to caress him or kiss him, but he did neither. Dean remained still and closed his eyes in contentment now that Castiel was near. "Day of rest," Dean mumbled. "So shut up and sleep."

"Not if you're going to be rude about it."

Dean grinned and placed his lips to Castiel's forehead again in a kiss that lingered. "_Please_ shut up and sleep."


	10. Chapter 10

**Warnings:** Strong language, explicit sexual content

**Summary:** Dean and Cas reconcile and renew the strength of their bond. Dean goes on an unusual adventure with Charlie.

**A/N:** Hey everyone! Hi to people that have just found this fic! Whoo, I finally managed to write a shorter chapter. It's still pretty long, but not a monster like the last one. I hope you enjoy this chapter even though it's a little scattered. I definitely have plans for this fic and I'm going to continue with it in spite of how long it seems to take me to write each chapter. This time I was definitely distracted by SPN 8. Geez, it was so Destiel I started to wonder why I bother writing fic at all, haha. No, but I'm definitely going to keep writing this. Thanks for reading! All the favs, follows, and reviews do motivate me to keep pluggin' on! :)

I totally get distracted by looking up 1930s/40s stuff too whenever I write for this fic. If you're curious, look up "Frankenstein (1931) Trailer" on YouTube. It's relevant to this chapter in a small way and will make you laugh.

* * *

Dean had barely slept since having his dream of Lisa. Saturday night, he had seen the remnants of his valued hex bag on the floor of his cell and a tremor of superstitious dread had overcome his body as events became clear. His bizarre dream of Lisa had occurred in tandem with the destruction of the bag of herbs. Not even the cynical soldier had been able to reason that the situation had been pure coincidence. Dean had reaffirmed in his mind that it wasn't magic, it was medicine, but he also knew that without the hex bag, he was likely to relapse into long nights of anxiety and discomfort. So, when Dean had invited Cas to sleep with him on the day of rest, he had done so as a man that had slept only two fitful hours the previous night.

Dead to the world, Dean gathered Cas near as if the other man was a living amulet that would guard him during his most vulnerable moment. To Dean, all dreams were synonymous with nightmares. He never dreamt of being a hero, only of being a victim, a murderer, or both. His most pleasant dream in years had been his most recent dream of the Lisa that refused to stab him, and even that dream had caused him to wake feeling unnerved. With Castiel flush on top of his body, Dean didn't dream at all.

The heat of Cas' body kept him warmer than any blanket. Cas was a soothing, welcoming weight. As Dean slept, he felt the rise and fall of Cas' chest and his slow, gentle breaths. They were so calmly nestled together that a quiet happiness softened the lines of their faces. They slept together for hours. Inevitably, someone found them.

"Well, well, well, fellas…" Gabriel wore a Cheshire Cat grin as he halted his stroll full stop to gaze at Cas and Dean's tender embrace. Dean was lying on his back with his arm snug around Cas and Cas was cozy against him, pulling Dean into his body in his slumber. Castiel's cheek was pressed firmly to Dean's chest.

Charlie, who had been trailing Gabe and flipping through a comic, smashed into the other male. "W-What! Why'd you stop?"

"Shhh! Shhh, _shush!_ You'll wake the husbands," Gabriel hissed and gestured enthusiastically to their friends. Soon, Charlie was gawking along with Gabriel.

"They're going to catch a lot of attention if they keep doing things like that," Charlie worried out loud as he leaned against the bars of Castiel's cell and continued to watch the two men sleep. Gabriel was very familiar with the nature of Charlie's fears and he brushed them away with a hushed scoff.

"This isn't the outside. Nobody cares. They're not the only ones having sex for fun around here." They both knew it was more than 'fun' with Dean and Cas, but that didn't need to be said. Gabriel went on, "And nothing could catch more attention than Cas fucking Dean in plain sight."

"Did you see it?" Charlie asked curiously. He knew as well as anyone that it had happened, but he hadn't caught them at it.

"Only me and half the guys." Gabriel smirked and rubbed Charlie's vibrant head of red. "Where the hell were you? It was a good show. If you'd told me you wanted a seat I could've saved you one."

After spending so many slow months around Gabriel, Charlie had become almost an expert at picking the scoundrel's brain. "You didn't. Please tell me you did not organize a peep show of our friends fucking."

"I made a _killing_."

"You're a pig," Charlie breathed in disgust. Charlie's cell was on the third floor above the second floor that held Dean and Cas. He had been too busy toying with his gadgets to pay much mind to the occasional soft human noises that had fallen on his ears the night of Dean's birthday.

"Part-time pimp," Gabriel corrected. The king of entertainment of the pen would have been neglecting his duties if he hadn't created a spectacle of the very hot, genuine sex he'd helped guide to fruition.

As Gabriel had tortured Cas with the hopes of obtaining lube to test his limits and to relegate his own work to Cas while taking all the credit for it, Gabriel had been inspired. What had been building within Castiel had been something worth more than cigarettes and dollars. Anticipation. Hope. _Sexual frustration_. By dangling the carrot of penetrative sex in front of his friend for so long, Gabe had guaranteed an exhibition worth seeing – the release of all of Cas' tension. All Gabriel had needed was the perfect vantage point, measured by its secretiveness. The desire Cas had for Dean, harbored discreetly, was lightening in a bottle, begging to be sold to the highest bidder. More than a few inmates had fantasies about either Dean or Cas, so it had been a natural scheme. Dean might have been off the menu, but careful peeks were fair game. "All I do is make dreams come true," Gabriel professed proudly. "Anyhow, what they don't know, can't hurt 'em."

Charlie eyed Gabriel with an unhappy look. "If I tell them, I know one person that's going to be hurt."

"You wouldn't dare!" Gabriel huffed and then panicked when Dean and Cas stirred ever so slightly. Gabe pulled Charlie close to his body and shushed him. Whispering to his ear, he said, "Just look at them. So innocent. If you say something, it'll _tear them apart_."

Gabriel had a point. Dean would probably die of shame. He would definitely close himself off a lot more. Perhaps Castiel would as well. "Just don't do it again," Charlie growled quietly. "It's degrading. They're our friends."

"Scout's honor." Gabe released Charlie to make a tiny salute, and the slender, pale redhead leaned his face into the cell bars. If Gabriel had done such a thing to his beloved 'little brother' there was no telling what he may have done to Charlie without his knowledge.

"I wish I had a camera," Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the sleeping pair like they were a work of art. At that precise moment, he saw his favorite guard approaching from around the corner through his peripheral vision. "Oh, goody! Uriel!" Gabriel cheered in a loud whisper and beckoned the guard over with an energetic wave. "You got a camera, buddy? I wanna get a snapshot of this."

Uriel turned to look inside Castiel's cell where Gabriel was gesturing with his thumb and he flinched noticeably at the sight of the infamous Castiel innocently curled up into the soldier's resting form. They looked as sweet as soul mates. Again, Gabriel pleaded, "C'mon! I know we've got one. I want a keepsake to send Sammy. And an extra copy for me."

Gabriel wagged his eyebrows. Uriel groaned and refused to stay to observe them any longer, grumbling about 'these homos' as he left. Gabriel called out after him, "At least let us borrow a pen! I wanna draw on their faces!"

"Shh! You're going to wake them." Charlie pulled on Gabriel's sleeve. "We should just go."

"All I need is a pen," Gabriel complained. Playing pranks in prison was more difficult than doing them on the outside because of the lack of resources. It was frustrating, but Gabriel was determined to do something to embarrass Dean and Cas. He entered the cell against Charlie's urgings and stood over the couple. _Think, Gabriel, think. There has to be something in this cell you can stick somewhere it doesn't belong. _He glanced over at the toilet paper and brought his hands together in thoughtful, conspiring gesture. When he looked back at the bed, a single, fierce blue eye had pried open to stare him down, completely alarming him. "_Putain,_ C-Cas!" Gabriel cursed. "You're awake!"

"What are you doing here?" Castiel asked in an even, distrustful tone.

"Nothing. I'm just standing here. Honest to God. This is a good standing spot." All of Gabriel's hopes of harassing the pair were destroyed when Dean also awoke. The veteran yawned a long, pleased yawn and smiled from the heat Castiel's body lent to him. His fingers were edging towards Castiel's hair when he caught a glimpse of Gabriel. A spasm of shock to overtook Dean and he crashed out of Castiel's bed suddenly.

"Whoa! What happened? I don't remember anything!" Dean lied, gaping at Gabriel from his position on the floor. Dean checked his body to make sure he was fully clothed and had not been victimized by Gabriel in some way. Relieved to find everything normal, he fixed an angry gaze at the intruder. "What the hell are you up to, Gabe?"

"Damn it." Without bothering to explain himself further, Gabriel stalked out of the cell and whined to Charlie. "I'm bored now."

A very confused Dean watched Gabriel and Charlie stalk away down the hallway. Dean made a quiet remark to Cas after they left. "For a second, I thought that was a nightmare."

"What, Dean?"

"Gabriel's face," Dean answered groggily, hoping he would never see that man's visage upon waking again.

* * *

After waking up feeling so wholly refreshed from their nap together, Dean had come to recognize that Castiel had a spectacular healing touch that calmed his spirit. He felt it in small increments everyday in the mutual ease they shared, but Dean noticed it more strongly after having experienced two disturbed nights in a row. Dean desired more of the sensation he got from being restfully intertwined with Cas. He also wanted Castiel to know that he was adored no matter how horrid and dark his past had been.

'Strange' had been a word Dean had first associated with Cas upon initially speaking to him and now he knew why better than ever. Cas had bouts of terrifying violence, and yet he was also gorgeous and soothing to Dean's body and mind. Castiel was one of a kind, and he easily captivated Dean. The Winchester wanted to learn everything there was to know about him and he thought showing love after such a significant confession from Cas would be the best way to ensure that Castiel felt safe with him in future.

Sunday night had been a beautiful blur of makeup sex. Dean had been apologetic through his kisses and grateful in every caress. He wanted to make Cas forget about their fight and about all the unpleasant things Cas had relived by telling a story from his past. Under such careful attention, Cas forgave Dean for angering him and for making him remember how cruel he was capable of being. Their apologies and words of forgiveness were never spoken, but they were evident within their soft moans and imprinted into flushed skin. The adoration colored with notes of forgiveness continued the following day in the library.

Dean couldn't keep his mind off of Cas. Cas had spoken more about himself on that Sunday than ever before. His emotions had been raw and engrossing. Dean surmised that Hector had been drawn to Castiel's strength and stony viciousness, much like he had upon being defended by Cas for the first time. The thought that he could have anything in common with Hector worried Dean because he wanted to be nothing like the masochistic, self-destructive ghost of Castiel's past. Dean wanted to be extraordinary and special to Cas in a way that the other man appreciated.

"Dean, you have to stop. I'm – we'll never get anything done if you don't. Someone will catch us," Cas said to Dean in between yet another loving kiss. He knew Dean was being especially affectionate because of their fight and the story he'd told the day before, but it felt too good to have so much of Dean's attention for Cas to be distraught by it.

"Baby, just one more. This is all that's keeping me warm," Dean breathed, pushing Cas more firmly into the stocked bookshelf behind him. Following a deep, dizzying kiss, his mouth soon found Cas' neck and the other man shuddered with desire.

"Have a smoke if you're cold," Cas suggested, noting that Dean wasn't sticking to 'one more' kiss at all.

Dean's fingers stroked a pert nipple through Cas' shirt. He let his lips roam over Cas' collarbone and he purred, "You're better than smokes. Warmer."

"Yes, but – "

"I certainly hope no one is fornicating in this library," announced the peeved, professorial voice of Death. "I'd like to return a book without having to wash my eyes."

Death walked over to the front desk and slammed a book of poetry down on the counter. In the back of the library, Cas eased away from Dean. Dean had taken to wearing the standard issued prisoner's cap due to the cold because any additional piece of clothing, no matter how small, ameliorated the effects of the winter chill. When Dean grinned with part of his face concealed by his cap, Cas was astounded by his handsomeness. "That fucker," Dean complained. "Go on, find out what he wants now."

Castiel was so disciplined in hiding his emotions that he was able to join Death without being too obvious about what he had been doing. Death devoured books on poetry and Castiel had a few new recommendations for him after processing his return. The relationship shared by Castiel and Death was a curious one. When they were together, they exuded similar vibes of eerie coolness. They had respect for each other, but no fondness.

One of the highlights of Death's week was finding new poetry to read, so he tolerated the obsession shared between the two librarians. He tolerated Castiel's occasional lovestruck absentmindedness and he tolerated being sometimes drawn into Dean's musings about Cas. Death was disappointed, but not surprised, that Dean had ignored his warning about getting too close to Cas.

All in all, the day passed with typical traffic. Dean was more careful about restraining himself around Castiel until the hour when they were setting up to leave for the day. Inmates were still in the library when Dean approached Cas behind the large, angular front desk to slip in between the older male and the counter. He grabbed Castiel's hand and pressed a neatly folded square of paper into his palm. Cas pulled back and carefully unfolded the paper, inwardly hearing the message messily scrawled upon it in Dean's voice.

_You want to fuck me against the wall during rec time?_

Dean watched, expectant, but Castiel had been stricken mute. In case anything was lost on Cas, Dean gave him a glimpse of the tube of lubricant he had in his pocket. From the way Cas' hands began to sweat and shake, the paper he was holding might have been mistaken for a scorching piece of coal. Castiel had received many propositions in his life, but this one was different because it was from Dean, who was so near, wearing a smug, satisfied expression. Cas didn't think any other man could be so effortlessly forward and seductive. "Well?" Dean asked.

The paper fluttered out of Cas' clumsy fingers and mocked him by landing in between Dean's shoes. Cas swallowed, unsure if he should answer Dean or pick up the paper first. When he made a move to bend down, Dean grabbed his wrist to stop him. "Is that a yes, sweetheart?" Dean cooed.

"Of course. That's – uh, _yes_." Castiel's expression was priceless. Such a question didn't have to be asked twice.

Rec time couldn't come quickly enough. Charlie would have to find another man to spot him during his weight training in the yard because Dean was involved in another athletic activity in the library storage room. In the first time since Dean's birthday, Cas enthusiastically fingered Dean, using the precious lubricant he'd broken his back to procure. He tried to gauge the perfect amount that would be comfortable for Dean while allowing them to save as much of it as possible. Dean, still stunned by the new sensations, was sensitive in his hands. Cas' fingers delved inside Dean with ownership, but his possessiveness was kind. His gentle, eager caresses that demanded to give Dean pleasure were accompanied by deep, loving kisses.

The Winchester pulled on Castiel's shirt, and all but begged for Cas to fill him. Castiel hoisted Dean up with impressive strength and pushed within him to satisfy Dean's craving for him. As before, Dean's tightness was marvelous.

"Don't hold back," Dean moaned as he clutched onto Cas. Castiel didn't. When it came to fighting and sex, Cas did not know his own strength. From his standing position, Cas bruised Dean's back with the force of his fervent thrusts. Being fucked into the wall with reckless abandon was exactly what Dean had wanted. He cried out in pleasure and urged Castiel on. Their hot breaths filled the room and Dean came without having his dick stroked. "Fuck," Dean moaned, "_Fuck_."

Castiel continued to pin Dean to the wall, maintaining his stamina well after Dean found release. Even following a night of intense carnal love, Cas was still ravenous for Dean. Wrapped tightly around Cas, Dean spoke the name of his lover in quiet praise and left desperate kisses on his lips and face. At last, Cas spilled his seed into Dean's depths and muttered something softly into his skin. Lips and the careful drag of teeth on Dean's unmarred shoulder followed his unheard words.

"What?" Dean mumbled.

"I love…" Castiel trembled, hot and emotional. _No, no, no. Don't!_ "…making you come."

The power behind Castiel's words prompted Dean to bring their mouths together for a heated kiss. "I love it when you make me come, babe," Dean muttered in reply. He was unable to carry on sentences without kissing Cas in between words. "I fucking _love_ it. You inside me…"

Listening to Dean's breathy words and feeling them against his mouth, Castiel knew he was in trouble. He settled down on the floor with Dean to hold him and kiss him all over. Holding Dean in his arms and feeling the rapid beats of Dean's heart with his lips made Castiel feel euphoric. Being with Dean was living in paradise.

The blue-eyed man was so afraid that one day he would slip. One day he would feel compelled to tell Dean exactly how he felt against his better judgment. Cas kept his mouth and tongue occupied to prevent those words from falling upon Dean's ears. They remained enveloped together on the floor for an extended period of time and yet they did not become fatigued. Finally, Cas rolled on top of Dean on the floor and growled with renewed energy, "I want you again."

* * *

In the showers the next morning, pink burn marks from where Cas had pushed his naked body into the wall and the floor of the storage room were visible on Dean's back. Forbidden to touch him or even look at him, Ruby still dared to take note of those marks. He found it unfair that Cas would brand Dean with all the evidence of how much he enjoyed Dean's body like he was flaunting the nature of their relationship to everyone. It made it more difficult not to look at Dean, but Ruby fought his urges out of fear. He couldn't have Dean yet.

Dean was sore and oblivious to the notion that his scuffed appearance was drawing attention and had meaning to the other men. He thought his guard was secured well enough not to betray how close he was to Cas and not to betray weakness. Since the showers could sometimes be a dangerous place, maintaining a certain appearance in them was important, so Dean continued to avoid showering anywhere near Castiel. Instead, he usually placed himself by Charlie to silently protect the redhead and keep his distance from the temptation of Cas and any unsavory characters. Charlie may have been older than Dean, but he was a civilian and still very boyish and vulnerable in Dean's eyes. Charlie appreciated the gesture.

The showers would always be defined by a sense of precariousness just like the library would always continue to be a sanctuary. The library was Castiel's domain and had become so central to Dean's new life that it felt like more of a home than anything else in the prison. A younger Dean would have never imagined that a library could be so important.

Within the Winchester family, it was an understatement to say that money had been scarce. School had been a rare luxury and work had often been so physically demanding that Dean had never had as many opportunities to read as he had in prison. He had always been too preoccupied to ever linger in libraries for long. Cas, treasured as a lover and best friend, was also the kind of professor he'd never had, guiding Dean to the tomes he had always wanted to read. Dean liked stories of adventure, heroism, justice, and the kinds of monsters that lived within men or could be hunted by men. Long ago, Dean had finished all the best Westerns they had available and had asked Cas to help him find all the best monster books.

"You're reading that again."

Dean glanced up from his copy of _Dracula_ to face Charlie, who was staring down at him with consternation. Along with _The Ox-Bow Incident, The Hobbit, _and _Frankenstein_, _Dracula_ was among Dean's favorite books. He could breeze through it because it was so dark and exhilarating. "Yup," Dean answered the other male simply.

"Why do you like books about monsters so much?" Charlie asked. Castiel had never asked Dean such a question, assuming his love of monster books aligned with his love of action and suspense. Charlie, on the other hand, found his tastes bizarre. After having earned enough of Dean's trust to hear the true story of his crime, Charlie couldn't understand why Dean would be drawn to monsters when he suspected a monster may have been involved in the murder of Lisa. When Dean had shared his story with Charlie months ago, Charlie had revealed the story leading to his crime.

Charlie had grown up as the only child of well-to-do, hardworking parents. He had always been good with mechanics and numbers, but he pursued mathematics over anything mechanical to work in the financial sector. He had been deemed a 'boy genius' so promising that he'd been hired to work at banks at an unheard of young age.

When he was anxious, Charlie stole. The crash of the stock market and the aftermath made him so paranoid and uneasy that he compulsively stole from every bank that had ever hired him. Both of his parents had become unemployed and he felt a responsibility to provide for them. Charlie had been lucky enough to be among the brightest of all the bankers, so he had almost always kept jobs even after others had lost everything. In the end, it hadn't mattered how much he had stolen because his parents had become victims of the mayhem and poverty around them. Charlie never explained exactly what had happened to his parents, but only said that after their deaths, he became all the more interested in the art of stealing through creative numbers and other stealthy, non-violent avenues. He was a kleptomaniac. Charlie had admitted to being a fraud and embezzler to Dean and Cas, but he had completely denied having taken a part in the massive scheme for which he was serving time. The last employer he had worked for had been the one to damn him.

That employer, Richard Roman, was slick, handsome, and charming in a perpetually confident manner. He smiled often and asked everyone to call him 'Dick' in a gesture of familiarity and friendliness, but he was as duplicitous as Charles Ponzi. While others lived in squalor, Dick became one of the new millionaires of the times. He had doted on Charlie, claiming that he had a 'special spark' that would someday take him to the top. Time and time again, Charlie had been asked to do things that were horrendously immoral, but not illegal. For years, Dick had put Charlie on various special projects and had appeared to put his confidence in the young man. In a moment of indiscretion caused by too much brandy, Dick had admitted that he loved the Great Depression and that he never wanted things to change. In fact, he had promised their prosperous times were only just beginning. After that moment, Charlie had decided to boldly steal every penny he could dare to steal from Dick. He had never been caught on those offenses.

Dean held a disdain for bankers but he had enjoyed Charlie's story because much of the money Charlie had stolen from Dick was still concealed safely on the outside like a buried treasure from a pirate novel. What wasn't hidden had been anonymously donated to all the families whose homes had been foreclosed and were now owned by Dick. Dean had liked the Robin Hood-like flair of that part of Charlie's story so he had decided not to lose complete respect for Charlie even though he had been a banker.

Charlie had been promoted and pampered for years even as he stole from the company until the day the Feds began to breathe down Dick's neck. Having decided he wouldn't spend a second in prison, Dick had thrown Charlie under the bus. He had pinned his corporate crimes on his subordinate in a spectacular, elaborate performance that had included the total character assassination of Charlie. Cas and Dean had never seen Charlie angry quite like he had been the day he had explained the way Dick had framed him.

After what had happened to Charlie, Charlie couldn't hear the name Dick Roman without wanting to crush the nearest inanimate object in sight. He thought Dean reading monster books was the equivalent of him having to read a column praising the entrepreneurship of Dick Roman. Yet, as much as Dean despised when Cas or anyone else spoke about demons, Dean would still read books about monsters, including demons and the Devil.

"What'd you mean?" Dean responded to Charlie, "Everyone likes monster books."

"Gabriel doesn't," Charlie said.

"Pfft, Gabe! Gabe doesn't count." Dean folded his book in the middle of one of Professor Van Helsing's engrossing speeches. "That guy isn't interested in anything but being the next Frank Sinatra. And being an annoying little shit."

"He wants to be Van Helsing," Castiel cut in, drawing the attention of the two other men. "That's why he likes monster books." Cas figured that Dean dreamed of being the 'man with the plan.' He thought Dean wanted to be the hero that was strong enough to face the unimaginable. From where he was lying, Dean covered his face with the book, wondering if Cas had been spying from over his shoulder.

"Shut up, Cas. That's not it," Dean mumbled, embarrassed. He sat up on the table and directed his attention to Charlie. "I don't know why I like them. Maybe it's because Dad used to tell us scary stories all the time. Crazy old man…"

"His favorite story was just so… Jesus, for telling us this story, Dad was a monster, let me tell you. When we were little, he loved to tell us the story of the lady that drowned kids," Dean said. "He would always tell us that if we didn't listen to him, she would come and get us. She would kidnap us because she liked to punish misbehavin' kids. Dad said if we ever separated from each other, we were as good as drowned."

"La Llorona," Castiel mused, shaking his head as he remembered that Gabriel had been told the same stories. Gabriel had hated those stories because he had always been the most misbehaving of all of his siblings. Persuaded that he would be the first one drowned, as a young child, Gabriel had avoided all swimming pools for a long while, until his older brother Lucien had maliciously thrown him into one in the dead of night. Perhaps that was why Gabriel loathed monster stories.

"What? I don't know, yeah, I guess so," Dean remarked, "I can't remember what he called her, I just remember that Sammy would damn near pee his pants. He thought it was all real. I think he still does."

Living out of the car and squatting in abandoned shelters always increased Sam's anxiety. Dean had always been there for Sam, promising that he wouldn't let anything get him. "Maybe I like 'em because they make me think of Sammy." Dean grinned. "The first movie we ever saw was _Frankenstein_. Even though he's a big baby, he loved it."

"After the war, I hope Sam comes to visit," Charlie sighed. The more he heard about Sam, the more disappointed he was that he had never met him.

"Well, he wouldn't come to see you!" Dean nudged Charlie with his toe. Eager to change the subject, he said, "Hey… speaking of ghosts, have you seen the haunted closet?"

"The what?" Charlie adjusted his glasses. "No… What haunted closet?"

"Cas! You never took Charlie?" Dean exclaimed and Castiel shook his head. The Winchester leaned onto his knees to address his bespectacled friend. "You're a man of science, ain't ya?"

"Well, not really – "

Excited, Dean went on, "You've got savvy. You're a practical man. You don't believe in things unless you seem 'em, right?"

"Um, sure."

"Then come with me!" Dean set his book down and hopped off the table.

"Wait, are you serious? Are you talking about a real ghost here?" Charlie asked. "_You_ of all people, believing in ghosts?"

"I didn't say that. It's just a rumor that it's haunted. I ain't about to judge it one way or another until a man of science confirms it. Here's the deal: I shove you in this closet, you investigate, and you tell me just how haunted it is… or isn't."

"You're really serious. You really want to shove me into a haunted closet?" Charlie chuckled. He had been shoved into closets before under unhappier conditions, but Dean doing the same thing didn't bother him. There was intrigue surrounding his proposition and Charlie was bored. He beamed. "I'm in!"

"Cas, you wanna come with?"

"No, thanks." Castiel was very amused by how eager the other two had become, but he thought he was too biased to accompany them on their so-called scientific endeavor. He knew the closet to be haunted without needing concrete evidence.

"Suit yourself," Dean said. "Watch _Dracula_ for me while we're out."

"I'll guard it with my life," Castiel smiled.

Dean winked. "You're a good man."

"You're a better man."

At the sight of Dean's goofy expression, Charlie stomped his foot impatiently. "C'mon, Dean. You can make passes at each other when we get back. I'm growin' old here!"

"I wasn't – " Dean babbled, but was dragged away by Charlie before he could complete his sentence. The last thing he saw leaving the library was a sweet expression on Castiel's face that made him giddy. Dean forced himself to regain focus on the mission at hand. He remembered the way to the haunted closet perfectly because it had made such an impression on him the first time Castiel had shown it to him. On their way to the closet, Dean recounted the tale of the tragic dead inmate and Charlie listened with rapt attention. The innocent wonder in Charlie's eyes reminded Dean of Sam in the best way possible. This was exactly the kind of thing he used to do with Sam.

They reached the door promptly and Dean opened it. "Alright, Charlie. If you can last more than five minutes, we'll know the story's bunk. Cas says nobody's ever lasted more than five minutes. Hop to it, kiddo!"

"Wait, why do I have to go in there alone?" Charlie stared into the cluttered closet.

"You're the scientist. If I go in there, I'll just influence you. You've gotta be all ears. Make your own decision about the closet and let me know. I have to keep time too," Dean said and pointed to the clock on the wall nearby. "It's fine. I don't think there's anything special about the closet at all, and I'll be out here the whole time in case something…"

"Something what? What happened when you went in there?"

"Don't worry about it," Dean pushed Charlie into the closet and closed the door. Immediately, the redhead felt unnerved. The small space was as dark as the inside of a cocoon - darker than he thought was possible. Charlie reached up blindly for the chain to the closet's light bulb. He pulled once and no light came on. He pulled again.

"Dean, the light doesn't work."

"Yep! It's the wiring. It's got bad wiring."

"Bad wiring…" Charlie whined. _It's just a closet, just like Dean says. _Charlie took a deep breath and wandered into the pitch-dark space. He didn't get far before tripping on something and causing a load of small, unknown assorted items to fall on top of him.

"You okay, Charlie?"

"Yeah, I just tripped. It smells in here," Charlie coughed. For the next few seconds, Charlie tried to find steady footing. He didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary and yet he felt it become harder and harder to breathe. "It's really stuffy in here."

"That's old closets for ya," Dean said, tapping his foot. He was keeping his eye on the clock. Almost a minute had passed.

A broom smacked into Charlie's back hard and the man let out a yelp. Ever since he had entered the confined area, he'd felt like every object in the closet was out to get him. "Damn it!"

"Four minutes to go. Nothing evil yet, huh?"

"I don't like it in here," Charlie moaned. He felt something, like a breath, tickle the back of his neck and he froze. The hairs on his arms stood up and his glasses fogged inexplicably. _It can't be. I'm the only one in here_. Very slowly and very carefully, Charlie reached behind himself as if he could catch the phantom off guard. In a tone almost below whisper he said, "Is somebody there?"

Perhaps this was an elaborate prank that Dean had planned because Charlie felt a presence. A metallic object rolled off a shelf and onto the floor without Charlie touching a thing. _Rats. It has to be rats_. Charlie inwardly told himself to calm down. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. In his state of blindness, he felt a touch on his midsection and cried out in alarm. "Dean! What did you do?! There's something in here!"

Frowning, Dean approached the door. "I didn't do anything. What do you mean something? Like an animal?"

"It _touched_ me! I felt something… S-Something… like… like a finger…" Charlie panted and stumbled to the door. "Open the door!"

"C'mon, you've only got two and half minutes left! You can do it."

"Okay, okay," Charlie knit his brows together. This time, the metal screech of a shelf being moved startled him out of all reason. "No, no, nope! Dean, open the door!"

"But, you're so close."

Charlie reached for the doorknob and found it to be as cold as ice. _What the hell?_ Frozen or not, he was getting out of that closet. He jiggled the chilled doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. "Dean!"

"It's not locked…" Dean huffed and tried to help Charlie in his escape. He pulled on the door as hard as possible, but it wouldn't open. On Dean's side of the door, he felt a powerful shock, like he'd grazed his fingers against a severed electrical wire. "Fuck!"

"What happened?" Charlie cried, still unable to open it from the inside. "Dean, it's stuck!"

"Damn this fucking closet!" The Winchester griped. "Okay, stand back, Charlie. I'm gonna kick it in."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Charlie could hear Dean preparing to do some damage on the door, so he jumped back into one of the shelves, cutting his arm on something unseen. His other hand became stuck in a bucket. He felt the breath on his neck more distinctly and swore he even heard it. It was an angry, human sigh. The entire closet hummed in agony, but, in the next moment, light was upon him. Dean was looking down at him with concern. He grabbed Charlie's wounded arm and hauled him out of the closet.

"Damn it! Forty seconds away!" Dean hissed as he looked at the clock once Charlie was in the clear. He hadn't needed to kick down the door. It had become unstuck on its own. Charlie had no words. Now that he was out of the closet, he felt free. He felt himself take a huge breath of relief. Charlie was not easily scared, but he was trembling. "Charlie?"

"Something's in there, Dean," Charlie huffed and inched away from the door even more.

"Did you see it? Was it mice?" Dean asked, still skeptical.

Charlie shook his head, sure that Dean would make fun of him if he told him he'd felt a man breathing on him. He'd felt a cold breath upon him twice. Dean took in the sight of his friend. He noticed his frazzled appearance and the cut on his arm, but he also saw him clutching onto something made of cloth. "What the hell's in your hand?"

Charlie hadn't noticed he was holding onto anything until Dean mentioned it. He lifted the object between them, revealing it to be an old prisoner's cap, much like the one Dean wore. As Charlie turned it over in his hands, their eyes were drawn to a dark brown stain on the side of the hat. "Is that?"

"Blood," Dean confirmed.

* * *

By the time they returned to the library, they found Gabriel in Dean's favorite spot, chatting up Castiel. The way Charlie and Dean charged into the room made them turn with interest. Dean threw the old hat on the table. Without having to explain a thing, the others understood.

The hat sat on the table like a living memory. It was dusty, dirty, and injected with the history of a man long gone. The bloody stain was so old that it looked blacker than it did red. Pieces of the hat had been eaten away by whatever other critters lived in the closet. The four men surrounded the hat, marveling at its mere existence.

"I thought you made that all up," Gabriel said to Cas. In the absence of Dean and Charlie, Castiel had filled him in on their planned exploit. Cas was silent. Upon seeing the wound on Charlie's arm, Gabriel gasped and pulled Charlie near. He spit into his handkerchief to clean his cut and chastised Dean for putting Charlie in danger.

"You're just getting it dirtier," Charlie groaned. "It's not even that bad. I just fell on something."

"No," Castiel corrected Charlie. "It made you fall on something."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud. You're scaring the kid." Dean glared at Castiel. He went on to summarize their experience with the closet and Charlie joined in with enthusiasm. Charlie wouldn't say it was a ghost, but he maintained that there was something in the closet that did not belong there.

"Whatever was in there, it was something...not natural," Charlie insisted.

Gabriel took up cursing at Dean and praying in various tongues because he didn't like the sound of anything he'd heard. The thought of being trapped in any closet, haunted or not, made him particularly perturbed. The Devil was real, Gabe said, and flirting with him was no light matter. It was best not to approach anything that was even remotely likely to be connected to the mysterious dark powers of the universe. Dean argued back. "Settle down, Gabe! Nothing bad happened. Charlie's a natural!"

"A natural at what?" Gabriel snapped.

"I don't know. Hunting! Er, ghosts. Ghost hunting," Dean replied, fully aware of how silly such a thing sounded. "He found the hat on his first try. He did good."

"Well, what do we do with it now?" Gabriel countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Without missing a beat, Dean answered, "I say we burn it."

"Why?" Charlie and Gabe asked simultaneously and Dean shrugged.

He hadn't really reasoned it through, but he invented something after the fact. "Well…if it's attached to some kind of ghost or somethin', we should get rid of it. _Really_ rid of it."

Castiel leaned over the table. He hadn't been sure of the hat's existence at all, but now that he was looking at it, he agreed with Dean. "The hat could be the source of the disturbance. A source of evil. Fire does purify."

"Yeah, sure, Cas. But also, I just want to burn something," Dean grinned wide. He'd already retrieved his lighter and was flipping the top open and closed in anticipation.

"Hm, fair enough," Gabriel remarked. "All in favor of burning the ghost hat, say 'aye.'"

"Aye!" The vote was unanimous.

They took the hat out behind the library and Dean did the honors of setting it aflame. To the surprise of all of the men, the hat burned blue for a brilliant instant. It must have been covered in cleaning chemicals, they reasoned.

* * *

…_and now she's dead, all because of me._

That was how Sam's latest letter ended. Sam had not signed it with his love or his name, although the letter had begun with 'Dear Dean' as his letters always did. The final line he had written was so important to Sam that he felt nothing should come after it.

After dealing with the strange ghost hat, Dean had believed the dead would be behind him for a while. But, later that day, Dean had found a letter from Sam on his bed, detailing the story of the specter that would now be haunting his brother. The letter had been written with messy, scrawled writing uncharacteristic of Dean's little brother. The sheets of paper Dean held in his hands were dirty and had recently been damp. Dean was gripping the final page tightly and a lone tear plopped down on the paper.

Dean had known this letter would be different because of the way it had been hastily addressed and written, but he had not expected to be so emotionally shattered by its contents. The correspondence contained the story of how the war had found a way to hurt Sam in an entirely new way. It was the story of the death of a woman. Not any woman, but a woman rare enough to be counted among the few of Sam's lovers.

Sam thought of himself as fiercely loyal to Jess. When she had begun to write him again, he had responded with excitement, love, and gratitude. The existence of his hometown sweetheart only made his tragic experience overseas all the more heartbreaking.

Sam wrote of a woman that had been brave, beautiful, and kind. She had stood outside of her house, baring a face of fortitude when she saw Sam and his fellow soldiers march into town. Refusing to hide again, she had been ready to die with honor because she was tired of the war. She was tired of being pushed around and scared. The day Sam had come into town had not been the first day soldiers had visited her home. Last time, they had taken everything she had.

Her name had been Madison Verdier. Her village had been shot up, burned, and bombed so many times that not a single structure was completely intact. She had been a lone woman, living in a graveyard of a civilization. Upon noticing that the soldiers approaching were Allies, she had changed her mood completely. Madison had offered the men places to stay and had cooked for them of her own volition. Her supplies had been meager, but she had been generous in the hopes that they would finish the fight that had dragged her spirit through the mud.

Sam had taken an overwhelming liking to her instantly. Her smooth, olive complexion, her large brown eyes, and her dark curls had been so stunning she had terrified him. Madison had won Sam over irrevocably without trying when she had shown him – _only_ him – the garden she protected. Tomatoes, she had said, were her favorite. The garden had been demolished before, she had told Sam, but she would replant it every time. She had piled rubble around it to protect it and she would look at it like it was the most perfect thing in the whole of the universe. Madison had allowed Sam to eat an entire tomato by himself and rationed the rest among the other men.

Sam hadn't been able to understand how a secretary had been able to survive longer than anyone within a thirty-mile radius. She had been filthy and alone, but not pitiful. When the other soldiers had shown interest in her, she laid a bold claim on Sam. Sam hadn't argued because he had understood that she trusted him, but he also had not mentioned Jess when she ushered him over to the place where she slept. He had not intended to sleep with her, but it had happened. For the first time since losing the company of his brother and closest friends, Sam had a truly personal reason to fight. He would have done anything for Madison because she deserved more than a few hidden vegetables among a city of ruins. She should have had many clean dresses instead of a single tattered one. She should have been able to go to bed at night without worrying about who might be watching or waiting to attack. She should have had a bed instead of a handful of sheets riddled with holes.

Sam thought he should have left her alone. If he had left her in her deserted town she could have lived, but he had promised to take her with him to protect her. He had intended to take her to a safer town with more people and supplies. Madison had wanted more than that. She had smiled and asked to be taken to America with Sam, but they didn't last a week together.

Before they reached the next safe town, they had fallen under attack. Sam had left Madison in a place where she would be sheltered from the bullets, but it was the explosion of a mortar that had sealed her face. Madison had died in a grotesque, undignified way, crushed by the stone building Sam had believed would shield her from enemy fire.

By the time Sam had reached her, all the life in her had been extinguished. He had remained by her side sobbing harder than he had cried for any other person among the long list of people he had already lost until he was forcibly removed. Then, Sam had refused to leave the city until he had dug her a proper grave. By the time he had finished digging, the soldiers decided to camp nearby. That was when Sam had sat down to write to Dean, his hands still caked in the dirt of Madison's fresh grave.

Dean felt his brother's pain from thousands of miles away. He carried it with him to breakfast the following day, to the library, and to the yard. He sat with his usual crew, trying to play a hand of poker without thinking of a flattened, beautiful French woman, but he couldn't.

"So, I went by the closet out of curiosity this morning…" Charlie said as he reorganized his poker hand. "And the light was on! There was somebody already in there, fixin' it up. Can you believe that? Dean, you said the light in there doesn't work."

Dean wasn't paying attention at all. He wasn't even properly guarding his cards. Castiel could see his entire hand.

"Dean?" Charlie asked. Gabriel made a sound of worry mixed with surprise when he caught sight of the awful hand Dean had been building. Dean was usually a much better player than that.

"Sam," Dean answered, unable to quite summarize everything he'd read and everything he was thinking and feeling on the subject.

"Oh! Did Sammy write?" Gabriel inquired, noticing that Dean didn't scold him for using his nickname for his brother.

"Yeah." Dean moved his cards around, thinking he shouldn't say anything further.

"Is he alright?" Castiel asked.

"_No_. When is Sammy ever 'alright'?" Dean threw his hand of cards down, giving up on the game. Everyone waited for Dean to elaborate. "He found a girl. A beautiful, wonderful French girl."

"But that's a good thing." Gabriel narrowed his eyes in confusion and then suddenly gasped, "But what about Jessica?" Gabriel was smitten with how smitten Sam and Jess were with each other. He had supported Sam from afar and even given him advice on the matter. Gabe was invested in the relationship between Sam and Jess.

"Well, there's hope for them yet," Dean said in a level tone. "The other girl got crushed to death from a mortar explosion."

Nobody said a word. After a few seconds of awkwardness, Dean got up and left the yard. Charlie was too disturbed to do anything other than stare at the dirt, but Gabriel exhaled a breath of horror. Quickly, he eyed Castiel because he thought that, ultimately, Dean was Cas' responsibility. Of course, Castiel hurried after Dean before he could get too far. He found Dean walking through the main complex. He didn't stop walking even when he realized Cas was by his side.

"Dean, where are you going?"

"I need to write to Sam."

"Dean, please. Wait," Cas begged. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder and the other man finally faced him. "I'm sorry."

"I should be there," Dean fumed. He was doing everything to try to not let the situation overwhelm him, but he erupted into a tirade. "He sat down to write to me after digging her grave! He has nobody over there. No one. It's not supposed to be like this! It is my _job_ to look after Sammy."

Dean could not handle being unable to protect his brother, whether it was to take care of Sam's physical or emotional state. He tried to explain the severe implications of Madison's death. "Sammy doesn't just sleep with girls, Cas. He _falls in love with them_."

Castiel didn't know what to say or if he should say anything at all. Dean was anxious and heartbroken on behalf of Sam. Dean was thinking of all the many things that were wrong with what had happened and what was wrong with the world. He had the furious, hopeless look in his eyes that Cas remembered having seen often when Dean had first arrived to the prison.

"We're cursed. Don't you think?" Dean rubbed the inside of his eye. Speaking feverishly now, he continued, "Dad lost mom. I lost Lisa. And now Sam. I never wanted Sam to know what it feels like. He shouldn't know. But he's like all of us. Dad never told us much about Grandpa, but he never said anything about a Grandma. She probably died just like the rest. Why do women die so easy? So bloody?"

Mom had bled to death doing something natural to a woman – giving birth. Lisa had faded into a pool of her own blood in the kitchen where she had never done anything but good things. Dean only knew Madison from a letter, but he had adored her for the few lines of pencil she had been allowed life. She had bled to death from the inside, like Mom.


End file.
